


This Tenth Commandment

by neatomosquito



Series: Colette [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 10, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelic Lore, Angst, Archangels, Brotherhood, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Camping, Case Fic, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Nostalgia, Resurrection, Samulet, Season/Series 10, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:51:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 238,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1677116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neatomosquito/pseuds/neatomosquito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Abaddon dead, the Winchester's and Cas still have to take care of Heaven, and reunite the warring angels. As things settle down, the boys are back on the road, saving people, hunting things. Living and breathing the old family business.</p><p>But as things settle down, Crowley gives a clue as to the whereabouts of a mystery that's haunted the boys since their stay in heaven. Where were the other Hunters souls? As they hunt them down, many more mysterys are unearthed.</p><p>AU: refer to 'Colette', but basically: Abaddon died possessing Sam, Dean killed them both, Dean is not a demon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Better to Reign In Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so it turns out that I do, in fact, want to continue my fic over the end of the real s9. Not in any sort of disrespect towards spn, but I feel like it's something I want to keep my mind open about, not have any initial thoughts about. This AU was started in Colette (Initially called Finale) and everything would be explained in there.

" _You ever, uh, seen a grown man naked_?"

"Would you turn that off please?" Sam asked, entering the room, glaring at Dean and then pointedly staring at the television screen. He looked oddly out of place in the motel that they were staying in, Hair damp where he'd washed it, face smooth and eyes bright, alert, like he hadn't just been sitting around for the better part of two weeks. Dean didn't see the issue towards growing lazy and rested while they could, sneaking naps on the couch and hitting whatever bar hadn't kicked them out yet. Sam wasn't too for the second, if Dean was to take in Sam's near constant bitching about it. Nor was he really that hyped up over the first, Dean always managing to do _something_ annoying while Sam tried to sleep. The one memorable time that he had drawn a penis on his brothers cheek with permanent marker had also been remembered for Sam's revenge. Three cans of tinned spaghetti, tanning oil and a whole lot of empty shampoo bottles.

Dean glanced over and grinned. "Why, is it making you uncomfortable, Sammy?"

Sam glared, not sitting down but moving further into the room. "It's _Sam_. Anyway, you know the rules. No porn, not while I'm in the room."

"It's not even porn," Dean looked back to the screen dismissively. The day was rolling down to an end and he'd tried to ignore how agitated Sam was being. Clean hair and day clothes, twitching fingers and determined glances. Of course, He was due back any minute now, but surely Sam should at least be prepared for _that_. The fighting? Well, Dean would mediate. As always. Get them both to bed without anyone throwing punches. Like always.

Sam gave him a look. "If you say, 'Explicit Romantic Plot Line' one more time, I swear to God―"

"Nah, it's Flying High," Dean said, eyes not moving from where the movie was playing out, staring hard, not seeing Sam in his jacket, not seeing the nearly packed bag by the door.

"You do know that that sounds like the name of a porno, right?"

"It's a comedy," Dean explained, waving his arms airily in front of himself for emphasis, before letting them drop to his lap. "Whatever. I was bored of this conversation like, three minutes ago."

Sam paused and was silent for a few minutes, finger tapping incessantly on his thigh. "When―"

"He said a few days, it's been a few days, he'll be back," Dean answered, rolling his eyes, before Sam could get the words out. "What's the rush, anyway?"

Sam looked purposefully nonchalant, brushing his too long hair back from his eyes and shrugging, unable to look up to meet Dean's gaze. "No rush. I'm just worried."

Dean scoffed and turned his attention back to the movie. "Worried. Ha. That'd be a first."

"Jesus _Christ_. Don't be such a jerk, Dean."

Dean raised his eyebrows, looking again over to his little brother. "Don't be such a little bitch, Sam."

Sam just made a tight face and looked away, sighing and staring pointedly towards the closed curtains over the window.

Dean sighed to himself and dropped over his arms so that he leant on his elbows, skin pressing onto his soft track pants. He glanced over to Sam and tried not to feel... _jealous_? Was that the word? That Sam could want their father back. It's not that Dean didn't love the guy, it's not that he didn't want him home, but as soon as he walked through the door, there'd be something wrong. Sam would pick it up or John would, and then they'd butt heads. And they wouldn't stop. Not until John found another one man job, or Sam took off to clear his head. And Dean would be caught in the middle. Smiling through gritted teeth, one hand on his father's chest, the other one pressed into his brothers.

Ordering Sam to cool his head, take a walk. Staying behind and apologising on Sam's behalf, saying that Sam didn't mean it, that he was just bitter, that is was the _life_...And John would just sit, alone on the table, staring dejectedly off into the distance, only perking up when Sam came home, eyes wary, but mouth pulling into a hesitant smile. And Sam would apologise, and the peace would last an hour.

Those hours were Dean's favourite time. The in-between. Where they'd watch whatever was on, and John would clean out his gun, over and over again, and Dean, when he was younger, he'd fall asleep to that sound, arm pressed into Sam's slowly breathing back, John's deft fingers working up a Hunter's Lullaby. In the very early years, when it was just them, and he wasn't old enough to take care of Sammy on their own, the clicks were slow and careful, wrong and disjointed, coupled with curses under breath and John shifting his leg on top of the bed, irritated. Sammy would be softly snoring, his hair brushing on Dean's shoulder, Dean's knee, Dean's arm, his breaths slow and calm, his face lost amid innocence and no concern. Then he'd found the diary, John had grown tougher, trained Dean to be tougher, trained little Sammy to hold a gun and everything started unravelling.

Years and years later, after _everything_ , Dean would wonder when it happened. His switch, from child to adult. From home meaning a place and a time and _Dad_ , to meaning a black car with toy soldiers stuffed down crevices, _Sam_. He and Sammy and Baby, that was home. On the road, singing as loudly as they could to a song they'd heard a thousand times. Dean knew all the lyrics and Sam did too, though he only sung the chorus, and the world would flash by like days slipping from spring to winter.

( _Oh God, Dean missed Sam so much. So damn much._ )

There was a rap on the door and Sam stood to attention. And then Dean noticed the bag, and the clothes, and the shoes, and the time.

"Where are you going?" Dean asked, trying not to sound worried, trying not to be _terrified_. He gave Sam a once over and stood up. "A little late for the bowling alley with Jose and the boys, isn't it?"

Sam just looked down and clenched his jaw.

Dean felt something build in his stomach, something freezing and wrong. He felt it collide in it's iciness, in its invasion. It travelled up his spine and settled as a bad taste in the back of his mouth.

 _No_.

The door opened and John walked in, smiling in greeting. "Hiya boys. How were things?"

"They were fine, Dad," Dean answered readily, walking over and shaking John's hand, helping him by taking the weapon bag over to the third untouched bed.

"Sorry you couldn't be on this one," John sighed. "It was a bitch, but it was a one-man bitch."

 _Now, that sounds vaguely dirty_ , Dean felt like saying, and would have said were it anyone but their father.

John looked over at Sam, sitting down heavily on the table. His quick Hunter's eyes drew to the bag and the clothes and the shoes. "Goin' somewhere, son?"

Sam cleared his throat, looked over and raised his chin.

Dean closed his eyes. _No, Sammy. Not now._

But when Sam spoke he was perfectly civil. Like he'd been practising it. Like he'd been practising it for _years_. "I've been accepted into College."

You could hear the American Flag over the entrance of the motel flapping in the wind.

"I'm sorry," John frowned, standing slowly, looking across at his proud youngest son with steady eyes. "You _what_?"

"Got accepted into college," Sam repeated, not looking at Dean, looking at _anywhere_ but Dean. He stared hard at John though, those Hazel eyes burning with defiance. "Stanford, actually. Pre-Law."

"How the Hell did you get accepted into College?" John asked, and though he didn't mean it to undermine Sammy's intelligence, Dean winced anyway, seeing Sam's face darken, feeling the threatening storm of words and regret that would soon follow.

"I applied. I got a full ride," Sam replied monotonously, which Dean was grateful for. Keep it simple, keep it safe, please, _please_ , don't tear their family apart. He clenched his jaw. "I'm going."

That taste, that had crept along Dean's tongue and through his throat, that taste that seemed the reverberate through his entire body, seemed to ache now. Just _ache_ with exhaustion. Sammy had gotten into college. Sammy was leaving Dean. Sam was saying goodbye.

"The _Hell_ you are," John snarled. "You think you can just leave us? Me and your brother? _Family_? What kind of son _are_ you?"

Sam looked like he was expecting this, looked like he was ready with an answer, and Dean had to wonder how long Sam had known. How many times he'd nearly said, how many times Dean had nearly found out. "I'm not _just_ your son! What the _hell_ kind of father isn't _proud_ of their kid who gets a full ride? To _Stanford_?"

"You're leaving us, and you want me to be _proud_?" John asked, laughing humourlessly. "You're a selfish son of a bitch, you know that?"

Dean balled his hands into fists. Wrong, wrong. Push and he'll just push harder. Sammy, so stubborn and defiant, especially in times like these, especially when he was told that he mustn't do something.

Sam nodded and gave a short bark of laughter. "Selfish? You got some nerve, Old Man. You drag me and Dean around the country and you expect us to just _wait_ around for the goddamn monster that killed Mom to just fall into our lap? You ruined our childhood just so you could avenge some _memory_?"

"Don't talk about her like that," John said, and his voice was deadly cold, distant. The boys could feel it, he was close to losing it, close to _really_ getting angry. "Don't you _dare_."

"If I didn't have a picture of mom, I wouldn't even know what she _looked_ like," Sam spat. He hadn't set down his bag. If anything, his hand had tightened around the handle. "So yeah, I'm gonna go to college. Because _that's_ the life Mom would have wanted for us. You really think she'd look down at this and be _happy_? You think she'd be ok with _any_ of it?"

"I swear to god, Sam," John said, nearly shaking. "Shut your damn _trap_."

"Well, I'm going," Sam looked around the room, to John and then to Dean, finally to Dean, and whatever Dean must have looked like must have made Sam falter, must have made him pause. But then he moved on, eyes flashing bright and angry again. "I'm going to go and _make_ something of my life."

"Saving people," John said curtly. "That's not _makin'_ something of your life? That's not doin' good enough for you Sam? You gotta be some hot-shot lawyer to finally feel like you're _contributing_?"

"Don't twist my words," Sam told him harshly.

He turned and walked to the door, throwing it open. The breeze that rushed through it was like a punch to Dean's gut, like a sock in the jaw. Like the last song of a swan before it died.

"I swear, Sam," John said low, slow, desperate. "You walk through that door, you don't _ever_ walk back. You hear me?"

Sam paused, looked over his shoulder and sent a tight, bitter smile their way. "Loud and clear."

The door slammed shut, cutting off another gust of wind. Sam disappeared outside, the motel room shook empty with only two people in it.

John was breathing heavily, but Dean couldn't hear anything, nothing but the ringing in his ears. Sam had just _left_. Left like...like all of it...their _family_...was nothing. Like they were _nothing_. Nothing and nothing and _nothing_.

"Goddamn it!" John swung his fist and flipped over the table, yelling and kicking out, catching the faux wood before it hit the ground.

Dean's breathing picked up, his heart rate crept up. _Nothing and nothing and nothing amen._

John spoke, but Dean couldn't hear the words. Just the sound and the tempo and the door slamming, again and again. _You should have seen, you should have known._

_Nothing and nothing and nothing._

"Dean!" John barked. "Dean!"

Dean blinked and looked over.

"Did you know?"

Did he know what? That Sam was going to leave? Or that Sam didn't want to stay? That Sam wanted to be a lawyer? Or that he didn't want to be a Hunter? That Sam knew what Mom wanted more than both of them, and they both knew it, or that Sam was never coming back?

Dean swallowed and shook his head slowly, trying to unravel all his thoughts, trying to sneak through all he missed on purpose. "No. I didn't know."

John watched him, half surprised, half upset. Then he bared his teeth and kicked again at the ruined table. " _Goddamn_ it!"

Dean just stared off, towards the door Sam had exited. Exit stage left. Left. He'd left. Left Dean. Where was home now? Where? Left? Door? Sam? Come back?

_Nothing and nothing and nothing._

( _Nothing and nothing and nothing. He'd forgotten how consuming it was. Darkness and nothingness and hoplessness and death. And watching him die. And_ death.)

Dean stared. He did not sleep that night.

Neither of them did.

* * *

_May 18th, 2014_

_12 Years Later_

Castiel did not leave to fight Metatron with the small angel arsenal he'd built around himself. Despite them begging him, Hannah with her wide pleading eyes, Tessa with her reproachful glances, her shifting feet, her arms that hug around herself, Gadreel, cuffed and stationary, doing nothing but looking at Cas quizzically, he made not move. Looked at the ground, to the sky, and back again, waiting and praying to their absent god. Crowley's news of Abaddon and the Winchester's had come as a shock, to them all. And so it was with that that Cas pressed his advantage. Dean's mark, the Blade, the only real way they could be sure of Metatron's defeat.

"Castiel," Hannah said, her voice hitched, in awe, in sadness, looking to the entrance of the motel.

Cas didn't need any more explanation. The impala, black as liquorice and sleek and friendly, shiny and the _Winchesters_. It was them, that car. It summarised them perfectly. Sam's softness in the supple leather of the seats, Dean's anger, sarcasm, in her sharp lines, her ragged beauty. Cas had to say, should the car ever become humanised, it would be a mixture between the both of them.

Cas felt his stomach clench as he took in the car. As he took in what he could see.

 _No, no, no_.

There was only one person sitting in it. In the car that drove too slowly for the other to be crouching in pain in the back, waiting for the angels to heal him. The sun shone on the screen and rolled behind a cloud and Cas looked away.

Oh, _Sam_.

"Sam," Tessa said softly, closing her eyes and listening, wincing slightly as she pushed herself back into the warped veil where the spirits screamed, for what they feared was eternity. She opened her eyes, and she looked sad, downcast, not like the angel she was. In fact, as Cas looked around, at Hannah's heartbreak, Gadreel's shock, the angel's _grief_ , they were _all_ reacting like humans.

"Oh my," Hannah clutched at her arms, hugging them close to her waist. She looked up at Cas with wide, scared eyes. "It _hurts_."

Cas placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, closing his eyes and trying to steady his breathing. Trying to placate himself. For surely Dean would come out, and see them. And he would not want to explain something to people so wretchedly emotional.

If only he had his full grace, if only he and all the others weren't drained from their lives on earth, wasting their powers, watching as it dwindled to nothing, watching as the last precious drops were needed for something much bigger than one man.

If only.

Dean walked slowly out of the car, his bloodstained clothes clinging to his middle, taking in each of them coolly, only opening up fully when he met Cas's eyes. Cas almost looked away, from all that _misery_. But the grief, that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that Dean was _used_ to feeling this way, _used_ to feeling his whole world shatter. Then Dean closed again, and he didn't even look up to see Tessa's knowing eyes.

"Sammy's..." Dean clenched his jaw and didn't finish the sentence. "Abaddon...the bitch possessed him and..." Dean looked up, this time at Cas, like he was begging forgiveness. "And he told me I had to."

Cas felt it steal through him, that poison, the loss, the way Dean looked at him, his eyes clenched, and yet he looked so like a child.

"Abaddon is dead?" Hannah asked hesitantly, looking to Cas to see if she were being appropriate.

Cas nodded deftly once, casting her a grieved look. She looked slightly stricken as she realised that she'd been insensitive. Cas knew that she'd only wanted to help, only wanted to...to be _proper_. Maybe one day Cas would teach her how to be human. Perhaps one day, after the pain of losing her friend passed, she would want to become one herself.

"Yeah, Dorothy'd that witches ass," Dean said, not even attempting a smile. Cas wished that he would not. It hurt more than anything, to see a human smile through pain. More than _anything_.

"His death was...unwarranted," Gadreel said, eyes fixed on the ground, blinking thrice quickly. He swallowed. "He was a good man."

Dean ignored him. He looked at Cas. "I...his...Sam's in the back seat. I couldn't..." _Leave him_. Even though he'd already left. He balled his hands into fists. "We have to..." Dean worked his jaw furiously and blinked away tears.

Cas nodded heavily, looking around to Gadreel, Hannah and Tessa. "You are dismissed."

Hannah wavered, looking tenderly towards Dean, before placing a hand on Gadreel's arm, leading him away. It wasn't strong, or overbearing. It was the touch of someone with compassion, with empathy. A sharing of warmth between two people who'd lost their way.

Cas stared after them, pausing for a moment, Tessa unmoved from his side.

When Cas caught himself and looked back to Dean, he saw that he and Tessa were locked on each other, eyes holding the others, refusing to let go.

"Can you..."

"Hear him?" Tessa asked, and her voice only shook slightly, the wince from before, when she'd reached out her mind not forgotten by Cas, who moved closer to Dean, closer in order to comfort his friend. She smiled slowly, sadly, but she nodded. "He's..." _Screaming with the rest of them. Walking around in uncertainty, begging for an end, for a rest._ "He's calling to you, Dean."

Cas frowned at her, confused. It was insensitive to say as a lie, but how could it be the truth? How could his spirit yell so strongly, so vividly, that Tessa could recognise it? Perhaps Cas didn't give the Reaper enough credit. Perhaps she was better than he thought she was. But Cas couldn't be sure. What he could be sure about was that when she said it, Dean's eyes brightened with something dark. His shoulders hitched into strength.

"What is he saying?"

Tessa shrugged, miserable. "What they're all saying." She looked across the motel, across into the empty air. "They just want to go home."

* * *

Cas suggested that they burn Sam's body that night, pay their respects and then, if Dean was strong enough, go after Metatron in the morning.

"Not just yet," Dean said, staring at his brothers unmoving figure from the doorway of the motel room they'd decided to lie Sam out on. His gaze wasn't hungry with despair, or vacant. Just sort of inquisitive, lonely. "I can't let him go just yet."

* * *                                                                                         

Dean slept on his own, in his own room that night. Normally it would have felt empty, cold, without Sam's breaths, without his brother walking around the room agitated, or curled up with the laptop, screening for the next gig. But after having his own room in the Men of Letter's bunker for the past year or so, it had come second nature. To fall asleep without someone else having to be there, to wake up screaming, and pretend like everything was fine when the other person sat up, gasping, asking what the _hell_ was wrong.

But he'd gotten used to it, to the point where he almost preferred it. But now, lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, he wondered how he'd ever managed to sleep at all.

"I recommend counting sheep," a familiar smarmy British voice said from the foot of Dean's bed.

Dean didn't jump when he saw the demon standing, his scruff casting long spindly shadows down his chin, his eyes fittingly darkened in the low light. "Son of a bitch," Dean snarled. "You have any idea what time it is?"

Crowley looked confused. "Should I?"

Dean rolled his eyes and sat up more fully. "The hell you want, Crowley?"

"I heard about Moose," Crowley shrugged. "Thought I'd come pay my respects. Problem, frater?"

Dean frowned.

Crowley sighed. " _Brother_. Latin for _brother,_ dumbass. Don't know why the _smart_ Winchester couldn't have been the one to survive―"

" _Hey_ ," Dean snapped, bundling the bed clothes in his hands. "You don't get to _talk_ about him."

Crowley put his hands up in a mock surrender pose. "Alright, alright. Tetchy, tetchy Dean, my boy. I've just come to offer a favour."

"Unless you have some sure-fire way of bringing Sam back," Dean stated. "I don't want to hear it."

"Ah, no, unfortunately," Crowley sighed. "Sorry. Unless you want to sell your soul again, of course. There's always option number desperado."

Dean's heart rate quickened. If he brought Sam back like that, again, Sam would never forgive him. "No," Dean said quickly.

"Clever boy," Crowley smiled. "See? The thing does learn."

Dean glared pointedly at Crowley's beaming smile. "Really, Crowley, get to the point."

"Just come to offer my services," Crowley said easily. "You know, we go way back, Dean. Apocalyptic times...ah, those were the days."

"Amazing," Dean stated coldly.

"Right, sorry, another sore subject. Is there anything I _can_ talk about around you?"

"You could _explain_ why you're―"

"Yes, yes," Crowley interrupted, bringing up a hand and stopping him before he could repeat himself. "At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I am here to help you Dean. Your brothers soul, do you know where it is?"

Dean frowned. "Not in Heaven? Why the hell would I tell you?"

"I can keep it safe, keep it dormant," Crowley said listlessly, glancing over to Dean, Used-Car-Salesman painted over his mouth in thick, red, paint. "Your brother will know nothing but rest."

"Yeah," Dean barked a bitter peal of laughter. "I'd trust you with my brothers soul. Right."

"I'd take care of it, Dean," Crowley said, almost defensively. "I'd make sure it stayed quiet and still. I'd _save_ him, Dean."

Dean stared at the demons face for a suspended number of seconds. "Go to hell, you slimy little bitch."

Crowley looked flustered now. "I'm trying to _help_ , Dean! Damn it! You really want your brothers soul just _floating_ around? I could summon it and trap it in a _second_ and I'm coming here for your permission."

"You still haven't given me a straight answer," Dean said, calm, verging on hysterical. " _Why_?"

"Because _I told you where Abaddon was_!" Crowley finally snapped. "I sent you on this Mission Impossible. And Sam's death, is _on me_."

"Yeah, it is," Dean said, gritting his teeth and staring hard at the king of hell's face. "But..." _You weren't the one who had to stab him! You're not the one who had to do what he asked of you!_ Dean paused and gathered his thoughts. He was _not_ D 'n' M-ing with the king of Hell. "There's _nothing_ you can do, _nothing_ , to fix that. So...so _leave_. Just _go_."

"Let me do this, Dean, Damn it!" Crowley snapped. "No wonder no one ever tried to _help_ you. You don't accept _anything_ unless you made it with your own hands. _Let me save your brother_!"

Dean closed his eyes, and he thought. He thought about the human blood and about Sammy, little Sammy, his soul bright enough to guide a host of angels home, lost and wearying of the world. Dean didn't know how long time passed through the underlayer, where Kevin was, where all the lost souls were, but he did know that any time was too much time. That it would be like a sort of hell, in there, bodies and souls pressed tight together, hot breaths and screaming, fingernails digging into your skin. What did that airlessness do to a person? What did that _terror_ do to a soul? What would happen, when they did get to Heaven, _if_ they got to Heaven? Would Sam recognise him... _oh, God_ , would he _recognise_ him? The years... _how long...._ no...but... _no, no, nothing and nothing._

Dean felt every muscle flex, every tremor in his body heighten, curl around in his blood, turn him from defiant to terrified. "Ok," and the words fell like drops of poison, snaking out of a dropped wine glass. "Ok."

Crowley looked surprised, the shock of Dean's admission melting the concern (actual _human_ emotion) off his face. "Wait...really?"

"Yes," Dean stated heavily. He looked steadily up. "I hear of _anything_ ―"

"You'll kill me, you'll torture me, feed my innards to my own dogs, yadda yadda, heard it all before," Crowley cut in. He smiled at Dean, and should Dean have not known better, he'd say it would almost be genuine.

"Oh no," Dean promised. "It'll be a lot worse than that."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "I've heard that one now and again as well."

They stared off, trapped in their own little world for a few minutes, Crowley's smile still tickling at the corners of his mouth.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You, uh, going? Or do you wanna stay for the After Party?"

"Oh, don't be vile Deanna."

Dean nodded towards the door. "Exit, stage left."

The smile dropped and Crowley scowled. "I _despise_ human blood."

He disappeared and Dean stared off into the space where he had once been. The darkness of the room seemed to retract away from him as the moon and the stars crept slowly through the window, casting the room awash, the thing that had been attracting the darkness melting away to nothing. Dean felt his hands slowly relax, and he leant back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

He closed his eyes, he thought about Sam, he did not speak, he did not sleep.

* * *

Dean was seven and Sam was three. The world was bright then, Sam had scruffy hair and a smile that could charm money out of a miser. Dean had started school. He liked it, he liked learning, being with other kids his age. He's ask them if they had a Sammy, _uh, sorry, little brother_ , and they'd shrug or nod or shake their head.

The teacher would ask Dean when she'd be able to meet his parents. He told her that his mom was dead and that his dad was busy. But that his brother would see her, see her anytime she wanted. That Sammy was real special, and smart enough to join in their class, should she let him.

She'd just shake her head, laughing, saying that Sammy was too young, that Dean should be able to have some time away from his brother. Dean frowned and said that he didn't want to spend time away from Sam, that something might happen. She didn't really laugh after that.

Dean would come home from school and Sam would be sitting on the table, legs kicking. John would be researching in the corner, frowning over mounds of research. Sam looked up to Dean.

"Why don't we have a mom?"

* * *

Tessa kicked Dean's door down, barrelling through the door, eyes wide, fearful.

"Dean," she said, looking to him, scared. "I can't...I can't _hear_ him."

"Hear who?"

Tessa closed her eyes. " _Sam_."

When Dean didn't react, she opened her eyes and looked at him, dumbfounded. "What, don't you care? Your brother is―"

"Safe," Dean finished for her. "He's safe." Like a mantra. Like if he repeated it often enough, it might come true.

Tessa recoiled and tilted her chin. "Dean, what did you do?"

* * *

14 and Sam was already a pain in the ass. Dean couldn't imagine him at 15, and oh god, _16 and 17_. Dean was glad he'd cut the crap out early, all the moaning and listening to long, slow ballads about love and loss. It was irritating. It irritated him, it irritated their father and it irritated the hell out of Dean, who was sick of feeling sorry for himself by the third week.

Sam's first hunt. Your typical salt and burn. Not too much to handle, Dean didn't think. Now that Dean was old enough to stay back and completely take care of Sam, John left for longer and longer. They got to stay in the same place for a more substantial amount of time, which was good, because Sam got to make friends and get somewhere with his schoolwork, but it was bad, because every time they stayed somewhere long enough, someone saw how smart Sam was. And then College came into the picture.

As if Dean needed some Law-School transfer, who thought that they were better than everyone else, filling Sam's head with thoughts of college, of a future, of a life, of _hope_... Dean knew he was being selfish. Selfish and bitter. But he couldn't help it. Sam leave, and then what? Dean would be alone, with their father. He'd be without Sam.

Dean honestly didn't like thinking about it.

Sam sat rigid on his bed, working through math problems.

Dean came into the room.

Sam looked up, not hesitant, only curious. "Hey Dean, you ever think about going to College?"

* * *

"Gadreel is right," Cas nodded across at the angel in question and Gadreel seemed a little taken aback, if not thankful. "There is no way to get into heaven apart from the staircase."

"But Metatron will be _watching_ it," Hannah insisted, irritated. "He'll know as soon as we arrive."

"He'd know anyway," Romeo put in.

Gadreel shook his head slowly. "That is not necessarily true. He might look the part of a God, but in reality, he is simply an angel who has granted himself more powers than he should. He would not see us, not for the first few milliseconds, if we were to find another route into Heaven."

"There _are_ no other routes," Cas reminded him.

Gadreel nodded uncomfortably. "That is true."

Hannah let out a huff and Romeo nodded seriously, seeming a little overwhelmed that they'd let him and Beatrice in on their conversation. The second angel was just watching with the air of mild disinterest. The skin of her vessel, a few shades darker than her eyes, now warmed to the building of the sun as it approached the herald of morning.

"I think it might be time for a break," Beatrice suggested.

"You're right," Cas nodded. "We have been talking for many hours."

"And still we are nowhere," Hannah summarised blatantly.

"Would you perhaps like to go find Tessa?" Cas asked of her, cautious.

However, she seemed relieved that she'd been given a job to do, go from point A to point B, and if you don't find what you're looking for, trundle off to point C. It was the kind of thing angels were built for, clear cut instruction, no room for compromise or second guessing decisions. There was a sort of beauty to their order. Cas understood this, but he also understood that it was too easy to persuade, too easy to move the pieces in your favour when you were in charge of a group as loyal and obedient as the soldiers of Heaven. And most of the time, what they were ordered to do was far from as harmless as locating a temporarily wayward reaper.

"At once," she reported proudly, flitting out of the door, like she'd regained her wings.

"What of us?" Beatrice asked, inclining her head to Romeo.

Cas glanced at them. "Uh, you are...just dismissed."

They followed Hannah out of the door and off to where the other angels would be waiting for them.

Then it was Gadreel and Cas.

Gadreel cleared his throat awkwardly. "And, uh, what of me, Castiel?"

Cas smiled softly. "You were with Sam Winchester for a long time."

"He cared for you deeply," Gadreel said, nodding. "You and Dean. Very much."

Cas closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. "I would like you to tell me more of him. Tell me the soft things, not the personal things." His eyes opened, blue and searing, into Gadreel's. "Do you understand what I mean?"

"You miss him," Gadreel stated, almost as if he was surprised. "I thought..."

"What?" Cas asked. "That I was not able to pose a front to my soldiers? I may not be a leader, but I'm no fool, either."

Gadreel paused. "I think of you as a leader."

"Thank you for the compliment," Cas said. "But I would like, now, to mourn my friend."

Cas watched the sunrise and Gadreel gathered his thoughts. The two angels sat, facing Aurora through the window of a shitty motel, basking in her glow.

"Sam Winchester had a bright soul," Gadreel stated, almost detached. "Sam saw a light at the end of this. He saw a way out."

Gadreel stopped and Cas looked over. "Is everything alright?"

Gadreel was looking stoically ahead. "I would...I would like to not think about Sam. And his death. If that is ok by you, Castiel."

Cas's heart gave a tremor. "That is perfectly alright."

Gadreel would have never spoken to Sam, nor properly, not without anger or betrayal ruining their regard for each other, but Gadreel had seen Sam, seen him in his entirety. Been him, seen the world through his eyes. Castiel would not mourn deeply if Jimmy were to die. Jimmy was a special soul, but Castiel's real regard for him fell as far as the strength of his body. Gadreel, however, seemed almost attached. Seemed _mournful_.

They were interrupted by Tessa, marching in a sheepish Dean, his hair in disarray, his head hanging despondent.

Cas stood and Gadreel watched, attached to the table by the cuffs that were still around his hands.

"Tell them what you did," Tessa demanded, eyes blazing with fury and worry. " _Tell_ them!"

Dean looked at Cas, and Cas saw two warring sides, Dean's nonchalance, and his friends regret. "Crowley made an offer I couldn't refuse."

"Your _soul_ , Dean?" Cas demanded, looking at Tessa, hoping beyond all hope he was wrong.

"Worse," Tessa hissed.

Cas frowned, confused, and tilted his head towards Dean. "What does she mean, Dean?"

Dean shrugged. "I told you, Crowley made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

"Answer the question," Gadreel said from behind Cas.

Dean looked over at him and his face lost any warmth. "Oh, hey there Lucifer 2.0."

"Answer, Dean," Cas pressed heavily.

Dean glanced at Tessa, who was watching him with her hands tucked under her arms, her mouth pressed hard down on itself, her cheeks reddening slightly, looking as though she held in a scream. Dean looked back at Cas, who could feel desperation starting to pump through his veins.

"Crowley offered to take care of Sam's soul while we fixed Heaven," Dean said easily. "I agreed."

Cas paled. "You _what_?"

Dean turned from nonchalant to surly. "What? Better than crammed in with all the screaming, right?"

Tessa huffed, like she'd heard him say that before and stalked out of the room, her black hair swinging behind her as she tried to take hold of her anger.

"Tetchy," Dean said.

" _Dean_ ," Cas reprimanded.

Dean looked at him sharply. " _Don't_ , Cas. Just _don't_ , ok?"

"No," Cas said defiantly. "Sam was my friend as well. I won't let you do this to him."

"Friend?" Dean asked, repeating it with a severe laugh. "I'm...I _was_ his _brother_. I was supposed to protect him. I was supposed to save him. So, I'm _sorry_ if me trying to do _something_ right somehow gets in the way of your little morality fest, because I will _not_ rest until Sam's soul is in Heaven, until his soul is at peace."

"At what _cost_ , Dean?" Gadreel asked, tiredly. "How many times will you allow this demon to control you?"

"Well," Dean said, hard. "I gave up on trusting angels. Thought the flip side might be worth a try."

"You don't mean that," Cas said.

"Oh, Cassie," Dean said, smiling, but there was no warmth in his eyes. They were so empty, like he was nothing, like all of this was for nothing, like the world revolved around nothing. _Nothing and nothing and nothing amen._ "I do."

* * *

This time, disposable angel minion number one came in the form of Rosie, possessing the body of a 16 year old leader of a chastity club. Number two was her best friend/part time benefited friend Riley, or Hazrael.

"So," Rosie said, chatting in the background while her TPTB was making nefarious plans right in front of her, torturing some poor shmuck and expecting her to retain absolutely 0 of what was spilling from its mouth. "You'll never guess what I heard on angel radio last night."

"What station were you listening to?" Hazrael asked.

Rosie giggled. "You're so funny, Haz! Haha, you should probably quote that on your blog, or something."

Haz looked offended. "Um, all I have on my blog is cats and jokes? That really offends me?"

Rosie laughed again. "Good god, you're just pulling them out of the air tonight, aren't you?"

Haz shrugged bashfully. "I guess so. I am pretty great, right?"

"Totally right," Rosie nodded enthusiastically. "Anyway, you know Metatron?"

"Oh, yeah, I call him Met," Hazrael nodded.

Rosie's eyes widened. "Whoa, wait, he told you to call him Met?"

"Sorry, what?"

"You know him, like on a first name, basis?"

"Haha, look, I can't understand you."

Rosie spoke a little louder. "You know him on a first name basis?"

Haz shrugged. "Still can't hear you. Maybe you should ask me something else."

Rosie frowned. "That's not how it works."

"Um, I find that really offensive?"

Rosie brightened. "Look! you can hear me now!"

Hazrael nodded enthusiastically. "Look at that! I'm all healed! Now, what did you hear about Metty?"

Rosie gushed back into her story. "So, you know how Castiel is like, building an army or something?"

"Or something," Hazrael nodded. "Yeah. I'm thinking of allowing him into my gang. What do you think?"

Rosie looked a little taken aback. "Well, uh, I think he already has a gang."

"Fair call, fair call," Haz nodded seriously.

"Anyway," Rosie continued. "Well, apparently it was all out of whack with what he had planned to happen―"

"Planned?" Haz asked.

Rosie nodded and rolled her eyes. "He wrote it all out like he hoped it would turn out. Like he predicted things, and then got upset when it didn't play exactly to how he thought it'd be? What a weirdo."

"I know," Haz shivered. "Imagine someone _actually_ doing that."

Rosie frowned. "Uh, Metatr―"

"Metty. Yes. Continue."

"Metty did do that."

"I know."

Rosie frowned slightly, but then smiled. "Cool. Anyway, so, word is, he _cried_."

"NO!" Haz gasped.

"Yes," Rosie grinned fiercely.

"That's so WEIRD!" Haz yelled.

"I _know_ ," Rosie said, her voice proportionally quieter than his.

"Ugh," Haz flipped open the phone he'd taken off his vessel from the fall. "I'm telling _everyone_."

"Oo, can you send it via snapchat?"

"Too many characters."

Rosie nodded, sighing. "Fair enough."

"Angels-Possessing-First-Worlders problems, right?"

" _So_ right."

* * *

Of the council called together to discuss the final assault on Metatron, there was Rosemary, Beatrice, Romeo, Uriah and Hannah, along with Gadreel sat careful in the corner and Dean leaning on the wall, arms crossed over his chest. The morning was still afresh and the world was clear and new, crisp like it had turned over a new leaf, like the world was starting anew.

You wouldn't be able to tell, looking into the motel that day, the same angels arguing about the same age old things. A motel room left untouched, where a freshly dead Sam Winchester lay, his blood dry over his chest, his burnt out eyes hidden by closed eyelids.

Dean had sat by his brothers bed. He hadn't said anything, not like last time, when he couldn't seem to shut up. When he spilled out his heart, worked himself into a state and _killed_ himself, _damned_ himself. Kissed the devil and payed for the consequences.

"Dean," Cas said, almost softly. Dean looked over, and he _hated_ how the angel looked at him. Like he understood, like he was _compassionate_ to Dean's situation. Because _no one_ could be. No one. No one understood, no one would _ever_ understand. The only person who had a chance? Out for the count, lying on a bed where time would strip him further away, his soul nestled somewhere safe ( _Please, oh please_ ). "Did you get all of that?"

"I heard," Dean said.

Cas looked like he didn't believe him, and Dean didn't put it passed the angel to chastise Dean like he was a student or something. But his friend just moved on, addressing Romeo on the group of Angels he'd be leading and what part of the mission they'd be carrying out.

Dean hadn't heard, but it didn't matter. He'd follow along as far as he had to, and then he'd branch off, find Metatron himself.

Sitting by Sam's bed, things started to click for Dean. Like how the world seemed to spin on this never ending high, how one man seemed to control that high, how that one man had more than enough power to bring Sam back.

And Dean fully intended to use it to the best of his ability.

Dean watched as Castiel moved through his ranks, placing a hand on Hannah's shoulder as he told her what she was to do. Smiling at Tessa when he instructed her. Tessa was avidly ignoring Dean, and he couldn't say that he blamed her. He'd ignore him if he was in her position. Giving Sam's soul to Crowley? Risky, but he couldn't...hadn't they suffered enough? Didn't the universe owe them a favour by now?

Cas called a Soul Mate a special case, and Dean had to wonder if all of this was balancing out the scales for his and Sam's never-ceasing epic 'bromance'. Were the people that had the most potential for happiness cursed to fall into a life where happiness was nearly impossible to come by? This fucked up world where the hits just _kept_ _coming_? Maybe Crowley was human enough from the trials, maybe Crowley truly felt the need to repent ( _He's a demon, Dean_ ) and maybe Dean hadn't just ruined everything, but he needed this. He needed that soul to be kept safe.

He needed to give his brother all the softness in the world.

The word 'Soul Mate', it shifted, not unpleasantly at the bottom of Dean's stomach. That he had a person in the world, who was half of him, who would take him for all he was and never let go. Despite all the crap Sam had had to deal with while Dean was constantly distracted by the blade, Dean knew that it was true, that it existed.

The need for the blade ached constantly, but it was Sam's final asking, his final wish, that Dean put _down_ the damned thing, _stop_. And so that, that pressure, was _everything_ compared to the push that was the desire for the blade.

Dean would find Metatron. Dean would talk to Metatron. Dean would bring Sam back.

At the cost of the world?

_Sam had told Dean to stab him, hands clutching hands, last breaths, screaming, white light and last smiles. Tears in hair and on shirts, blood, blood and blood._

_Nothing and nothing and nothing, amen._

Dean stared ahead. The world could wait.

It was his brother who needed him now.


	2. Spirit in the Sky

Burning Sam's body shouldn't have hurt as badly as it did.

Because he was going to get him back, and with the power he was planning on using, he didn't need Sam's body. he didn't need anything, just enough persuasion and the First Blade.

But it hurt, wrapping his brother up in salt and fabric, placing him out on a pyre, watching as Sammy was engulfed, heat eating out his skin, peeling him down to ashes and embers.

Cas had stood next to Dean, in that back bit of town, where no one would stop long enough to see what they were burning. He had just stilled in companionable silence, breathing steadily, stars reflected in his eyes.

Cas had noticed some change in Dean, some hard gritted determination. The one that he had seen when Tessa had told him that Sam was yelling for Dean, the one that seemed unrelenting and _dangerous_.

"Do you..." Cas coughed awkwardly. "Do you want to say anything?"

The fire was dying down, and the heat from the flames was almost bearable now, not that Dean had stepped away as the fire's breath had first attacked them, unrelenting. He seemed determined to punish himself. As far as he could. Cas was worried about how far he'd go.

Dean didn't move his head, didn't move his eyes from where they were watching Sam burn. "No, thanks, Cas."

His voice had none of the malice that Cas had feared for, none of the sarcasm and defensive bite that they'd been dealing with since Sam had died. He just sounded small, small and tired. There, in the world with the sky turning over his head, Hell burning beneath his feet, millions and millions of people pushing passed him, wandering the earth.

There with nothing, with the promise of an angelic army and his brother in the hands of a demon.

"About Crowley―" Cas started, but Dean cut him off.

"I trust him, Cas," Dean stated unevenly. Like it was the first time he realised it. "I wish I didn't, but I do."

"He killed Meg," Cas said, his voice tripping over her name. He inwardly cursed. He shouldn't have felt as bad over her death as he did. She was a demon and she was evil and she was the one who had waited, day in and day out while he had been suffering from his madness. She was the one who had sat next to him... _Dammit._

Cas couldn't think about all he'd lost, not while Dean _broke_ over the something that was _so much_ more.

Dean nodded slowly, and closed his eyes, as if he were ashamed. "I know."

* * *

Cas had placed angels as relief and backup around the centre in cafes and buildings, where the stairway was to be found. Gadreel had promised that should they just get him and Tessa to the opening, he would be able to convince the guardian of his sincerity and then somehow get Cas, Dean, Hannah, Romeo, Beatrice, Uriah and Rosemary inside, with their teams without arousing too much suspicion.

"Honestly," Dean said, unfeelingly. "I say we just gank whoever guards the stairway. Then Tessa open up the portal."

"But then Metatron would know of our intentions," Gadreel said, unsure.

"He might not," Dean pushed.

"But he _might_ ," Cas countered. "And that is more important."

The group had relocated to the warehouse that they'd held Esther in, Metatron's disgraced angel. She had been instrumental in locating Gadreel, but the memories of him giving into the power that the blade had held over him before Sam had begged him to stop weren't positive ones. Enjoying it at the time just made it that much harder, just made it that much more _disgusting._

And then being there, being there as Dean _without_ Sam made the wound that was his brothers passing gape that much more. His ghost seemed to smile around corners, his voice seemed to carry itself in the wind.

 _No Dean, you're not turning into me_.

It ached inside of him, burning like star dust, acid running into his lungs, moving its way through to his stomach, searing itself in his fingers. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Come back, come back._

_Don't leave me here alone._

"He would know anyway," Hannah said, pressing her old argument. "If we walked through the door."

Cas looked unconvinced. "I do not give the same heed to his power as you do, but he is less likely to know of that. Heaven is a large place. There is much that he does not know of it, places that can't always be watched."

"And he wouldn't be watching the entrance to the stairway?" Hannah asked, raising her eyebrow.

"I only mean that us arriving there, over slaughtering the angel guarding the staircase would at least _get_ us somewhere before he sent angels to apprehend us."

"He would still know," Hannah said, frustrated.

"There are no other ways to get into Heaven," Cas said evenly. "And killing this sentry is a sure-fire way of summoning more angels before the door is even opened. If we can get Gadreel to distract it, then get Tessa to open the doorway, we might have a chance."

"About that," Tessa said, looking from Cas to Gadreel. "How the hell am I suppose to open the door in the first place?"

Gadreel shock his head. "I am not sure, sister. I can tell you that you will be overtaken by some instinct. That is all I managed to gather from the stairway in my visits."

Tessa nodded sharply. "Fair enough."

"What of us, Gadreel?" Rosemary asked formally, like Romeo, a little overexcited that she'd been employed into the main series of events.

"You'll wait off to the side," Cas said, not missing her eagerness, but seemed to find it more worrying than amusing, like Dean had. "Wait for our signal that you can lead your charges into Heaven. You know your positions?"

Rosemary and Romeo both nodded quickly, while Uriah and Beatrice watched their friends with tired eyes, nodding absently, recalling the discussion from the previous day.

"Ok," Cas looked around at each of the people gather in the room, pausing heavily on Dean before continuing on. "Are we ready?"

* * *

"Are you ok, Dean?" Cas asked hesitantly, standing in the doorway to where Dean had stashed his stuff, watching as he packed his belongings into the bag with a detached sort of perfection.

Dean blinked and looked over, distracted from whatever thought he'd been chasing. "What? Oh yeah, fine."

Cas nodded, even though he didn't believe him. Cas wandered into the room, feet scuffing on the floor as he dragged his heels, slowing as he neared Dean.

He watched Dean pack his things for few minutes before Dean slammed the contraption atop his bag and turned and glared at Cas. "What do you want, Cas?"

Cas flinched back slightly, nervous. He wasn't sure how Dean would react to what he was going to bring up, but he had to know, had to know the extent to all the damage that had been wrought. He steeled himself and looked hard at Dean, unrelenting, iron and strength.

"How are you feeling?" Cas asked, and before Dean could answer with some half-cocked sarcastic bullshit, he nodded to Dean's arm. "With the mark?"

Dean paused and then harshly turned back to what he was doing, filing through his belongings quicker than before Cas had walked in. "Fine."

"No more..." Cas drifted off, not sure how he should address the topic. "No more urges to..."

"Kill, maim, destroy?" Dean guessed, his voice lathered in bitterness. He laughed humourlessly. "No, no. Nothing like that."

"Maybe killing Abaddon helped sate it," Cas mused, thinking privately that killing Abaddon would more likely to have an entirely different affect. Cas couldn't imagine the blade relenting, Cain's curse slowing down. Nothing, not even the death of a Knight could do that.

Dean shook his head. "I don't know, but I don't think so, Cas."

"Oh," was what Castiel came up with in response to that.

Dean looked over, tired and amused. "Oh?"

Cas nodded shortly. "Uh, yes."

Dean shook his head, smiling, before focusing back on packing, the smile slowly peeling off. He coughed and swallowed and when he spoke, Cas could only just hear him. "I promised."

"Promised?" Cas repeated, with all the softness that Dean had treated it with. "Promised what?"

"That I'd stop," Dean clarified, distracted. "Promised Sammy. When he was..."

Nearly dead.

"You know that the mark is a curse," Cas stated.

Dean shot him a quizzical glance. "Yeah, of course. Cain gave the bare details before I got all inked up."

"Ok," And Cas nodded to Dean, to the absence of Sam. And then again, he repeated it, like he was talking to himself. "Ok."

* * *

Hannah felt _wrong_ about forgiving Gadreel. He had nearly killed her, _had_ killed her friends, her brothers and sisters who had just wanted somewhere safe to stay, someone safe to follow. She'd avoided Nathaniel, Malachi and all the other little factions that had formed. Rebekah's penitents had seem like the best option of the lot, but of course, she had died, and Hannah had been left with nothing.

Hannah had looked for ages to find herself a vessel. Unlike the other angels, she refused to trick her human charge into giving permission. She addressed them stoically. Even then, however, it had been worryingly easy. Call yourself an angel and suddenly, you've found yourself a new home and a thousand people willing to do anything for you, should you just promise to do something for them. It was blind and it was wrong, and Hannah was worried about what would happen, should Metatron ever try to press that to his advantage.

The thing Hannah hated more than anything was those who possessed children. You appear to a child, with white wings and a halo, smiling and promising that they were special, that you were destined for great things, and the child would say yes. No questions asked, no thinking about something they didn't have a chance to understand, just yes, in all its entirety and all its finality.

Hannah _hated_ angels like that.

She was to be the one Gadreel was mock arresting, taking her up to Metatron as a leader of the rebel cause. They thought it made more sense than Cas, who was known for being notoriously difficult to capture, and who had had much more practice with being human than Hannah had.

Gadreel lead her in silence to the back alley street, where rubbish tumbled around in disarray. Where the doors of houses were firmly shut and the windows often boarded.

"Oh no," Hannah whispered, looking to where Gadreel had said the sentry for the stairway was, and see a little girl sitting idly amongst the rubbish.

Gadreel's hand tightened on her arm and she could tell he hated it as well, that he believed humans to be more of more worth than they were granted. Hannah wondered if he had always known that, or if he had discovered it while on earth. Discovered it possessing Sam.

"Sister," Gadreel called out, and the youth angel stood, dusting her hands off on her skirt. She couldn't have been more than eight, the vessel, and the way the angel wore her was so _wrong_. Too much wisdom in innocent eyes, too much packed into one tiny thing.

"Gadreel," the angel greeted calmly, casting her eye across to Hannah. "You have succeeded in capturing a servant of Castiel?"

Gadreel nodded triumphantly. "Indeed, I have."

The sentry cast Gadreel a hard look. "Metatron is unhappy with you."

"When is he not?" Gadreel joked, but the angel didn't seem amused.

"You left your post at the Horn of Gabriel," the angel reminded him. "Many angels arrived and had to be disposed of by...other means."

Gadreel's tensing would not have been noted by the sentry, but Hannah felt it, his hands digging further into the flesh of her vessel. It wasn't painful, just slightly uncomfortable, and Hannah forgave him for it. Every angelic death was a piece of God lost.

When he didn't answer, the angel narrowed her eyes. "Well? What have you to say in your defence, Gadreel?"

Gadreel swallowed. "I beg forgiveness, sister. I was tracked down by Castiel and his legion and held by them, before managing to escape."

The sentries gaze hardened. "You were captured and escaped? Where is Castiel now?"

"I do not know," Gadreel stated. "He was not there when I escaped. If he were, it would be he that I bring you now to answer for his crimes against Heaven."

"What of you, Hanael?" The angel looked over Hannah, using her full name, of which she hadn't heard for an age. "How do you fair?"

"Well, Samael," Hannah said tightly, finally recognising the angel, placing it's angelic features to the angel that she had met many years ago. "Thank you."

Samantha smiled. "And how long do you expect that to last?"

Hannah's mouth curled into a smile too, but hers was small and feral and taunting. "As long as I need it, _sister_." She spat the last word like an insult. Samael narrowed her eyes, and behind the sentry, a Reaper was stretching out her fingers.

* * *

Tessa placed her hand on the wall where the angelic encryption was written and she closed her eyes, frowning hard. She moved it slowly along the chipped bricks, reaching out, fingers dragging across the white paint that, if you didn't know any better, you might call graffiti.

Then she gasped and her eyes flew open.

"What is it?" Cas asked worriedly, coming to stand beside her.

But Tessa's eyes were bright and _happy_. "Can you feel it, Castiel? Can you feel Heaven?"

Cas shook his head, small, frowning in confusion.

Tessa laughed, and Dean considered that he'd never seen her so happy, never seen _anyone_ so happy. Cas watched her with a small pining look, jealousy had never been worn well by the angel, but now he just looked sad, distant, humbled by longing. Dean saw that, he saw it in himself whenever he thought of his brother.

God, he missed Sam. He missed him like he was slowly hacking out his own heart, like he was removing all that was good about himself and serving it up, ice cold and steaming. He missed Sam like the ache that just wouldn't go away.

Dean heaved himself into the task at hand, Heaven, Metatron. He shuffled uncomfortably. Seeing Tessa's exultation and Cas's longing, it made it harder to even address the last thing on his list.

Discuss his future with Metatron. Discuss _Sam's_ future. And then somehow make it all ok.

Dean took a deep breath and watched Tessa as she closed her eyes again and pressed her palm square to the middle of the diagram, a white light gathering and pulsating under her fingers.

* * *

Samael, Samantha, looked at Hannah with mocking superiority. "You have too much faith in yourself, sister."

 _You're wearing the body of an eight year old and guarding the only portal to Heaven,_ Hannah wanted to snap snidely back. _Judge yourself before me._ But she didn't she just regarded the angel coolly.

Samantha sighed and turned back to Gadreel. "I'm afraid that we need a Reaper to open the portal, unless you have one?"

Gadreel coughed, and Hannah wished that he were better at deceit. They were going to get found out. She couldn't see Tessa, Cas and Dean, but she could imagine that they were gathered around the stairway now, Tessa instinctively opening it. The feeling of home, of heaven pressing through every cell of the Reapers skin. Tessa was old, and she hadn't been to Heaven in an age. Hannah wondered what that would feel like, that comfort, that presence.

Samantha sighed. "So that's a no, I'm assuming?"

"Uh, yes," Gadreel admitted sheepishly, and Hannah had to admit that if it weren't for his fingers digging nervously into her arm, she wouldn't have noticed anything wrong with what was going on.

Samantha shrugged delicately, her little girl shoulders rising and falling neatly. "No problem. I shall have to summon one. Many have joined Metatron's unit, you know."

"Oh, I am aware," Gadreel said, and Hannah had to hide a smile at his irritation. She felt a little nostalgic when all that the angels had to worry about were office quips like this. Who was more beloved by Gabriel, and when he and the four other archangels disappeared, who was most treasured by Raphael, Michael, Naomi. It was petty and Hannah had tried to keep out of it, her job mostly on strategies for peace, of which became redundant under Michael's leadership. But she kept at her job even as she was reassigned, and with it kept her head about how to succeed in Heaven. Which she didn't, she had no plans on doing so. She was content.

Hannah brushed the emotions aside. Human emotions. How did anyone deal with them?

She'd been content. She wanted to go home.

Samantha seemed as much amused by Gadreel's snark as Hannah, that she also smiled. "Quite. Now..." Samael's eyes when out of focus and she swayed suddenly. Then she blinked, gasping, horror seizing her face. "The portal!"

"Yes?" Gadreel asked, easily puzzled, letting go of Hannah, her loose cuffs dangling over her fingertips.

Samantha hadn't noticed anything wrong. She looked at Gadreel with wide, frightened eyes. Now, at least, she looked the part of an eight year old. "Someone is opening the portal!"

Gadreel let go of Hannah completely and her cuffs fell to the floor. Simple and steel. Human and breakable.

Samael's eyes widened as she realised what was going on. Hannah had never been held. She turned furiously to Gadreel. "You! You defy Heaven a second time? After all Metatron has _done_ for you? For us?"

"He cast _us_ out of Heaven, little sister," Gadreel pulled out his angel blade and Hannah let hers drop into her hand, shifting her stance and holding the knife comfortably in her hand. "We owe him nothing, not even his own life."

"How _dare_ you!" Samantha hissed, her own blade falling into her hand, taking in the sight of the two angels advancing on her with their own weapons. "I'll kill you _all_!"

Gadreel stabbed forward, striking across where Samantha had once been. The young angel stepped out of the way, flinging her hand open and casting Hannah across the alley as she kicked Gadreel into the opposite wall.

Hannah hit the wall hard, her head smashing into the brick, body colliding with the floor. Somewhere within her, she recognised that if she were human, she would be dead now. But she wasn't, her sight was dizzy, her mouth felt stuffed full and her hands ached with little movement. She groaned and rolled over, pressing herself onto her stomach, trembling with the effort to _keep going_.

She looked across and made out Gadreel, bloody and stretched out against the wall, looking up at the angel who stood over him, her own angel blade flexed at the ready, tiny foot inside it's red shoe pressed cruel against his neck.

Hannah tried to reach out, but her arm could only stretch out a centimetre or so before flopping to the ground. She was healing quickly, her head almost repaired, her cracked bones resealing and swelling brain calming down. But it wouldn't be fast enough.

She could make out what they were saying, now that the ringing in her ears was calming down, now that her body was readying itself to fight.

"― _humanity_ ¸ Gadreel!" Samael's voice was high pitched and _furious_. "You are _weakness_ and _illness_ and _death_!"

Gadreel made no move to defend himself, only look up at the angel standing over him, swallowing a mouthful of blood. "I am _sorry_ _―_ "

" _Liar_!" Samantha snapped, kicking him hard in the windpipe, collapsing the tube. Hannah watched, mortified that as she lifted her foot away, it popped back into place as the angels body rushed to heal itself.

"I do not lie," Gadreel gasped, and his voice was gravelly, like he was coated in needles. "I would not. I served Heaven and its original purpose. I will not let Metatron rule over the humans."

"You would die for them?" Samael asked, voice tight with disgust. "You would _kill_ your own, for the hairless apes?"

"Do not speak of them as such," Gadreel warned her, shifting slightly, before her foot came down again on his neck. "They are flawed and it is of this that they are beautiful. Don't you see, Samael? The miracles they perform every day? We were created to be perfect―" her throat cut him off as hard as she could, but even from where she was, Hannah could make out the rest of what he was saying. "and they were not, and yet they are still... _good_...pure and true."

Samantha inclined her head condescendingly. Hannah edged onto her feet. "You would _die_ for your little...miracles, Gadreel? Your perfect little flawed humans?"

Gadreel did not look away from her eyes. "I would."

Hannah reached out, staggering across, strength growing with each step, but it was all too _late_.

Samael span her blade in her hand and stabbed it down, watching as the grace exploded out of Gadreel, white light screaming from his eyes and his mouth.

Hannah watched, despair overcame her as she stabbed down with her own blade, the steel formed of celestial intent cutting through Samantha's back.

The angel fell to her knees and screamed as Gadreel had done, white light streaking out of her mouth and eyes, until, timid and spent, she collapsed onto her front, the little girls head resting on top of Gadreel's knee.

Hannah wondered what the mother of the child vessel would say when she saw that, and she prayed that they did not judge her too harshly.

Hannah watched the tiny girls body, and Gadreel's vessels body. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and walked off, limping, to find her friends.

* * *

"Castiel!"

Dean turned to the sound before Cas did, and ran over to help Hannah as she lumbered her way towards them, the lights and screaming before not of her. Dean wouldn't pretend to mourn the angel that had possessed his brother and abused his trust, he wouldn't pretend to care for he who had let evil into humanity, but he did care about Hannah, and all she represented. So he caught her and helped her over to where the light was still swarming under Tessa's hand. The Reaper had her eyes closed and had begun to sway.

"Hannah," Cas said worriedly, picking his second in command off Dean's shoulder and setting her upright, and cautiously outstretched should she need something to hold on to. "What happened? Where's Gadreel?"

"We distracted her, but she noticed," Hannah said, nodding to the opening staircase. She looked at Cas, mournful, her blue eyes shimmering with something, something profound. Regret, or sadness or something worse. "Cas, Gadreel is dead."

Cas nodded, like he knew. Of course he'd known, there had been two bursts of light. Dean knew all too well Cas's invested interest to see the good in every one, to be hopeful beyond redemption, but Dean had thought not even he was blind enough to see that.

"Who had been guarding it?" Cas asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

Hannah's gaze darkened. "Samael, Samantha."

"Wait, she has two names?" Dean asked.

Cas looked over at Dean, surprised. "Most angels do, Dean."

Dean frowned. "What's your true name?"

Cas looked even more confused. "It is...Castiel?"

Dean shook his head. "Whatever. This is so confusing."

"My real angelic name is Hanael," Hannah offered, looking mildly sheepish at Dean's glance of surprise.

"Wait, really?"

"I know of another angel who's name is 18 syllables long," Cas said, shaking his head and smiling slightly. "She just informed everyone to call her 'Flagstaff'."

"Buddy of yours?" Dean asked, both Cas and Hannah.

Hannah nodded, smiling. "She is." Then she blinked and her mouth trembled small and sad. " _Was_."

"Was she killed in the fall?" Cas asked, tired, like he'd expected it as inevitable.

Hannah glanced over to him and shook her head. "Refused to join Nathaniel, if I remember correctly."

"Just as Muriel refused to join Malachi," Cas sighed.

Then they were interrupted, as a great whoosh of air buffeted them over and Dean nearly stumbled onto the ground. They all turned and face the wall as it was eaten up by a white light. Tessa was flung back, her eyes wide open now, arms spread as she slammed flat onto the ground.

Dean heaved her up and she stood, but shakily, relying mostly on Dean to stay standing.

She laughed and looked over at Cas and Hannah, who were taking in the portal with wide eyes. "Do you feel it now, Cas?"

Cas nodded slowly, and despite all that must have happened in Heaven, he smiled as well, Dean couldn't help find the little display more than slightly unnerving. They were like homing pigeons, the angels, the way that they flocked home. Dean knew that Cas would always end back there, however much Dean might have liked to entertain the idea that he and his brother and his best friend might go on, fighting monsters together.

"It's not actually a stairway?" Dean demanded, watching the portal as the angels that had been biding their time on the sidelines came and joined them, the group gathering, heads held in awe.

"No, Dean!" Cas said, sounding excited. Like a little boy at Christmas. "That was a metaphor!"

"Well I'll be damned," Dean commented. "Someone better call Zeppelin."

Tessa staggered and Dean caught her fully, seating her off to the side, leaning against the wall. Cas came over curiously, bending over the Reaper, too full of joy to be overly concerned. Even Tessa, who looked nearly unconscious she was so exhausted, wouldn't stop smiling.

To Dean, it was _beyond_ irritating. He was glad he had only met a few angels in Heaven. He couldn't imagine staying sane in the company of things that were so damn _happy_ the whole time.

"Are you alright, Tessa?" Cas asked, bending down beside her, knees folding, head hovering near Dean's waist. He extended his hand and placed it on her knee.

She nodded. "I―"

"You're not," Dean stated, tightening his jaw and watching her, worried. "You're exhausted."

"Form ranks, angels!" Cas ordered, and the angels fell into six groups. Cas lead his in first, Dean astride him. Cas held his hand around Dean's arm as they neared to the white light. He clutched at the first blade and stopped just short of wrapping his hand around the hilt.

Dean closed his eyes as they entered Heaven.

* * *

Crowley regretted making the deal with Dean Winchester as soon as he had done it. The problem was his empathy. His newly rediscovered compassion that would have been better left unfound. It was the damned Human Blood, turning him into some kind of reverse Sam Winchester, the 2008/2009 era. At least he didn't have a _human_ hanging around, manipulating...unless he counted the Brothers.

Goddamn it. Dean and Sam were his Ruby.

Crowley never thought he'd sink so low that he might become a _parallel_. Ugh. _Symmetry._

He also couldn't believe he was empathising with Sam Winchester. He couldn't deal with the empathy thing to begin with, but this, this who _Vessel of Lucifer and also Lover of Dog's_ alignment he had going on was freaking him out. At least now he was on the straight and narrow. Or rather, he was gleefully throwing himself off the tracks.

It'd be a good day when he didn't feel so squeamish about heading down into the dungeons and poking his head around in there. It'd be a good day when he would be able to throw Sam Winchester into the pit and not feel one speckle of remorse for it.

Unfortunately, today was not that day.

"Monique, dear," Crowley called his secretary over. She looked like she was going to say something, but then just closed her mouth and made her way over to him.

"Yes, Crowley?"

"How is everything? With the Winchester's soul?" Crowley asked.

Monique still looked a little miffed, but when she answered, she was perfectly pleasant. "As you had ordered for it to be."

"Lovely," Crowley smiled up at Monique (wait, not Monique...Michaela?). "And he's...?"

"Yes. That's all been taken care of," Michaela (no, no...Mia?) answered quickly.

"Should he be ready yet?" Crowley asked easily, trying to look nonchalant. Trying not to look like he was desperate to talk to someone who could relate to the withering humanity he stored inside himself.

Minnie shrugged. Even doing that she looked efficient. In her past life she'd been a secretary for a high ranking CEO. Needless to say, in her current position, it hadn't ended well. "It depends, soul to soul. It could take days, it could take hours."

Crowley was curious. "Maisie, tell me-" she looked less than impressed at 'Maisie' "-what are the... _factors_?"

When Mona shrugged this time, it was out of genuine ignorance instead of airiness. "No idea. No pattern, nothing to distinguish soul to soul."

"Curious things," Crowley murmured. He glanced up at his secretary. "Yes, thank you dear. You're dismissed."

Crowley closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was in front of a wide, white room. He'd had it installed when he had...a few years ago, when he'd found souls he didn't want to turn. It was a good way of securing knowledge, and a better way of playing mind games. Bobby had stayed in them until he'd grown tired of the mans insistence that he wouldn't tell Crowley anything, and he'd been sent off to his own personal hell.

Sam was in there now. His soul probably shouldn't have manifested yet.

Crowley opened the door anyway, holding a hand over his eyes, wary of how bright the youngest Winchester's soul was, proved through the demon who he'd had to give the sack to because of how... _touched_...they'd been after transporting Sam to the holding cell.

The door opened and Sam Winchester turned around, his face softer and more boyish than it had been in years, his hair a few centimetres off the length it had been when he died. He looked the age he had when he'd fallen into Hell. Crowley couldn't be bothered to figure it out, figure out whether it was because of the Cage, or if that was just how Sam saw himself.

Sam's soul had hardened early. Created itself into a frightened 26 year old.

Crowley would have laughed, were it not so sad.

"Crowley," Sam greeted, and he looked torn between relief and aversion. "Where the hell am I?"

Crowley deflected. "What do you remember?"

"Abaddon kidnapping me...and then her possessing me..." Sam frowned. "It gets a little hazy after that." Then his face paled and he looked over at Crowley, horrified. "I died, didn't I? I'm dead?"

Crowley watched Sam slowly. "Yes. Yes you're dead."

Sam looked around in panic. "Then why the hell are you here?"

"What else do you remember?" Crowley pressed.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know...panic? Yelling? And then...quiet."

Crowley didn't say anything, he just watched the youngest Winchester for the breadth of a second.

A beat. "Where's Dean?"

Crowley shrugged. "Ah yes, knew we'd get to here at some point. Off killing things, I assume."

Sam didn't smile. He closed his eyes. "I told Dean to kill me...right? She possessed me, and I told him to kill me."

"Definitely killing, then," Crowley stated, eyebrows raised.

Sam shook his head, smiling slightly, sadly, like the whole world was just drifting further and further away. "I asked him to stop."

* * *

The angels under Metatron's control were separated into different factions. There were the soldiers, who had initially been created to serve God through strength and physical prowess, the scribes who sat around tables, carefully transposing scripts like a middle ages monk and then the Archivists, who filed away history and cleaned up after everyone else, their minds chock full of what could be and what would be.

They separated within Metatron's heaven. He preferred to have the scribes nearest to him, finding their presence to be calming, simplistic. The warriors were too brash and the Archivists too pretentious, too mysterious. The Scribes did their work and they did their work well. He had always found it so satisfying, being so integral and so irreplaceable.

A soldier? A dime a dozen. A really good Scribe? Priceless.

It was just beyond here that Metatron sat, in his massive study, his typewriter, his constant companion, sitting calm and waiting for him on his desk. In it were sheets of paper, untouched for the past few days, and spread across his desk was everything he could find. Sam's semester's report, his admittance letter to Stanford, Cas's receipt at a gas station for a full tank and a bottle of water, Dean's Christmas cards, the ones he had thought were lost to the fire that killed his mother.

Metatron was erratic. Nothing was working. Nothing he wrote came true, no characters exposed themselves to hidden flaws, no drastic plot points. The world was becoming murky as he drew away from it, and in his head, he felt the control and insight that he'd had over all his underlings resolve to just the general chatter of Angel Radio. He was losing his touch, he was becoming less and less of a God by the day.

Metatron knew that if he just wrote _something_ , then it would begin to clear up again. He would write something about Cas, Cas would follow through with it, his little heart beating earnestly. Then the Winchester's would follow through, predictable and side by side. Then one of their endearing on and off friends might join them on their adventures as well. Perhaps Hannah, Cas's new Rachel, or Jody, the lady Sheriff who managed to somehow find herself in position of surrogate mom.

Metatron would right something, and everything would be ok. He'd write something, and the world would set itself straight.

He clasped his hands together over the typewriter and bent forward, resting his forehead on his enclosed palms and closing his eyes. To anyone unfamiliar, he was in prayer, face appropriately sombre, lips quivering as he repeated the words to some ingrained chant. But he wasn't. Metatron inclined his head to his hands and thought about what he would write, stating the same words over and over again.

_What's next?_

The Winchester's and Castiel would eventually find themselves in Heaven. Metatron mightn't be able to see Cas or his followers, or the Winchesters, but he knew that much. He knew that they would come, that they would come for him. Cas's borrowed Grace was burning through him, the angels under his wing were dependent on him to come home, and the brothers needed retribution for Kevin, and for all else Gadreel had forced Sam to do.

Metatron untangled his fingers and began to write.

* * *

Cas had assumed that the landing area for the staircase would be relatively empty, large enough to fit a group of them in and safe enough to keep his blade up his sleeve.

The bright screaming light of the portal dwindled away and he furiously blinked at his eyes, forcing them to quickly adjust.

The comfort of being home wore quickly off as he looked desperately around him. All he could see were angels, holding files, coffees, staring at the newcomers with wide eyes and open mouths. Above their heads, in bright green letters was "ARCHIVES" painted in neat block letters.

Cas stilled as he looked around the room. He glanced back and saw that Hannah was doing the same, the angel dropping her blade into her hand. Across from Hannah, Dean was watching them with the same guarded glare that he had seemed to been wearing the past few days.

"Don't move," Castiel ordered to his silent, still troops. He could imagine they'd feel irritated by the unnecessariness of his order, but he had to make it. Perhaps if they were careful, if they were slow, they'd be able to convince these Archivists to let them through without any trouble.

And then slowly, as thought it had all been synchronised, they began to circle around the arrived Angels. Silver blades poked out beside their fingers, out of the tips of their sleeves.

"Castiel," Hannah said, and her voice was clear. She hadn't wanted to fight, didn't like to fight, but she was a soldier and it was her duty. To heaven and to Cas.

"Give an order, Cas," Rosemary stated shakily, her own blade down and in her hand.

"Kill as a last resort," Cas said slowly, looking around, clenching his jaw. Because the us or them mentality? The one that had nearly started the apocalypse? It wasn't exclusive to archangels. As much as he cared for his forces and wished them well, in the event of a fight, when the opponent was open, the killing blow would be laid out every time.

These were archivists. The ones that surrounded them. With blank faces like their minds had been tampered with (which, to Cas, was more than likely). They weren't warriors. Without a leash, his warriors would commit a massacre.

Then, Cas added, "Band out and search, leave as many angels alive as you can."

"Hannah, you and your angels stay here with me," Cas ordered. "The rest..." he looked out to the group of tensed angels, each holding a silver blade, each eyeing their brothers and sisters with a cold sort of fury. "Go find Metatron. That is your _number one_ objective."

And as soon as Castiel stopped speaking, the Archivists attacked.

* * *

There was a banging on his door, and as soon as he sighed, looked up and swung the door back telekinetically, the angel behind it was practically frothing with worry.

Metatron's study had become his home base, where to go if you wanted to speak to him. Whenever he left for earth, he didn't have to make the way to the stairway, his grace still perfectly intact. Whenever he wanted something to eat, he just ordered one of his favourite scribes to whip down to New York and pick it up from that place he liked. Metatron didn't need to leave the room, didn't need to make himself a familiar face to the angels under his command.

Because he was aloof, he was mysterious, and he was worried.

"Joel," Metatron greeted, bored, sighing and resting his hands on his desk behind his typewriter. "What was so important that you needed to bang so loudly on the door?"

Joel didn't even have the capacity to _look_ sympathetic. "Castiel, he's _here_."

Metatron was unperturbed. "Excellent. Anything else?"

Joel blinked, confused. "Uh...no. No, that's all."

Metatron shrugged lightly. "Fine. Now, if you'll please..."

"Castiel is here, and he is trying to take heaven back!" Joel stated again, surprised at Metatron's indifference.

Metatron looked up at Joel levelly. "I am _aware_ , Joel. Now, if you'll please leave, I have work to do."

"Angels are dying," Joel said, his voice still light and unbelieving. "You'll just... _let_ them?"

Metatron spread his hands. "What do you _want_ me to do?"

"Give and order," Joel frowned, like it was the most obvious thing in the universe. "Call the soldiers?"

"The soldiers will find out sooner or later," Metatron informed him. "And I have no orders to give."

"So you'll just let them all die?" Joel demanded.

Metatron rested his hands softly on the keys of his typewriter. "Welcome to wartime."

"I've _been_ in wartime," Joel stated angrily, glaring at Metatron. "I know what _wartime_ feels like. I know what _leadership_ feels like. This isn't _wartime_ , Metatron! You promised that the angels would be lead _properly_ now that the archangels were all dead."

"I am _God_ and you will do as I say," Metatron said angrily, glaring up at his scribe. "There is a plan at work here, a plan bigger than just a few dead angels. Castiel must die, and I know how, and why, and _everything_ must follow the script."

Joel looked so _angry_. He was infuriated, staring down at Metatron with hard, severe eyes. "And what if it doesn't?"

Metatron was unconcerned, he lifted his hands off the typewriter, irritated when he saw the mess of the page he'd been writing on. "It will. Believe in me, Joel."

Without a word, the scribe lifted his head, turned on his heel and stalked out the door, not looking behind him as it slammed back into place.

Metatron sighed and took of his glasses, polishing the lenses with the end of one of his sleeves. Once Castiel was dead and the peace of Heaven certain, they would flock to him, Joel for forgiveness and the rest in wonder. He just had to wait, watch as the actions spelled themselves out.

He'd written this. He knew what happened.

He would sit, they would find him, and then the fun would really start.

* * *

The Archivists had almost been embarrassingly easy to kill. They had swarmed, they had held their swords correctly, but when it came to the push and shove, they didn't know what to do. They weren't warriors, they had no idea how to combat the moves made by Castiel's forces.

Romeo and his angels had gotten through easily, breaking their wall within moments and fleeing out towards one of the three corridors branching off from the room. He was the first out, all of his angels getting out, pushing passed most of the archivists, killing two.

Romeo didn't have the same regard for Angelic life that Cas had. They were strings of celestial intent crammed together. Angels weren't irreplaceable. Angel's weren't as special as Cas made them out to be.

Nevertheless, he appreciated Cas's philosophy and saw it as much more noble, much less spineless than joining with Metatron.

The body he was wearing didn't exactly inspire fear, but his followers remained a respectful quiet as they made their way down the corridor. Up ahead, Romeo saw another open area of desks and chairs. It was in a panic, from down the hall, he could see the odd flash of silver, the odd flash off an angel blade.

"Ready?" He looked back at the angels following and smiled as they nodded. It wasn't a happy smile, it was grim and unrelenting, but at least it was there, something to strengthen them, something to give them a hold of.

There was a murmuring of nods before they broke through the door way, spreading out and holding formation.

Romeo moved forward, disarming angels, pulling out cuffs and efficiently securing them from wrist to wrist. He looked across the room and saw all the other angels following his lead, wrist to wrist and disarming, disarming and wrist to wrist. He had to take a moment when he saw one of his underlings do both at once.

The room was secure quickly. All the angels who had been preparing to fight Romeo and his section of Castiel's forces were held down, staring at their cuffs like they'd never seen anything like them before.

"Ok," Romeo said, as the last angel was held down, one of his soldiers pressing its foot to the angels head, the other one holding down it's legs as it secured its hold. "We can do this the easy way...or the easy way. Cas isn't big on..." he looked to Seraphina, who smiled slightly. " _Encouragement._ So, where's Metatron?"

Romeo let his gaze sweep the room, watching as all the angels pointedly looked away.

He raised his eyebrows. "Where is he?"

* * *

The archives must have given the angels more trouble than they were worth, because when they attacked, they _attacked_.

Poorly, perhaps, with moves that were taught to Cherubim and other lesser angels. Just enough to give them the advantage in a fight with a demon, but fight they did. With reckless abandon and hollow faces.

Cas disarmed and moved throughout them steadily, holding his blade with a softness that gave away his little wish to fight. Dean was standing beside him, mouth clenched in determination, fists out, Blade positioned near uselessly in his hand. The strength that he had gotten from Cain thrummed around him like a red aura, shuddering with experience and _fear_.

Securing all the angels, that was supposed to be the hard part.

Hannah and her angels stood beside Castiel as he positioned the surviving Archivists away from the bodies that had started to pile up as Rosemary, Uriah, Beatrice and Romeo had taken off with their teams. They find Metatron, they kill Metatron, they take back Heaven.

it wasn't an overly complicated plan, simplistic enough to change if things got heated. Complicated enough that they had one job to stick to, a series of orders to _never_ waver from.

All of the angels who had tried to stop him looked up at Cas with unbridled resentment.

Hannah stood close by his shoulder. "Can I talk to you, please?"

Cas looked around at her, surprised, before letting her lead him off to the doorway of one of the three passages. "What's wrong?"

"The angels," Hannah stated firmly. "Where are the soldiers? Surely Metatron doesn't think that _this_ could stop us?"

"Maybe he underestimates us," Cas said, already knowing that he was sounding foolish.

"He doesn't," Hannah shook her head. "He _wouldn't_. And we can't afford to think that he does. Castiel, I'm worried. I think that this is a trap."

"I agree with you," Cas assured her. "But we can't back out now. If we leave, then we never come back. Do you understand that?"

Hannah nodded, casting her eyes downward, clenching her jaw and letting her hair fall across her face.

"Hannah," Cas said, not unkindly. "We have angels relying on us. Do you have anything else you would like to say?"

"Just that..." Hannah looked over at them. "They were once my friends. But now they don't look like themselves."

"Have you heard of..." Cas tried not to make a soured face over her name. "Naomi?"

Hannah looked suddenly cautious. "Heard of her, but only rumours. They say that you go to her and you forget things. They say that you go to her, and you don't come back the same."

"They're right," Cas looked down at the angels who were seated in front of the desks, distant and unsmiling. "She did. She's dead now, but I wonder how many angels there really were working on us. How many controlling us."

"Metatron _ruined_ them?" Hannah asked, voice rising to an angry whisper. "He... _reprogrammed_ the angels?"

Cas ensured that his face stayed calm, unfeeling. "I don't know, but that seems like the most likely."

"Cas―"

"We have things to do," Cas said, this time almost irritated. "Will you be able to focus?"

Hannah nodded slowly, watching Cas with adamantly blank eyes.

"Cas, over here," Dean called, and Cas walked over. Dean was leaning over a female angel, foot propped up on one of the chairs that he had righted, having been knocked over in the tussle. He leant the First Blade on his knee and the angel was watching it with barely concealed exhaustion.

"What's your name?" Cas asked, sparing a worried look Dean's way.

"Patience," the Angel responded easily.

"See?" Dean offered. "She's talking."

"She's _sacrificing_ herself, Dean!" Cas turned, angry, to where Dean had his eyebrows raised, unbelieving. "She wants us to focus on her, instead of them."

"Well," Dean kicked off the chair and crossed his arms. "We need to talk to someone, right?"

"As much as I hate it, Dean's right, Cas," Hannah said, frowning slightly at the angel in front of them. Her angels followed her obediently, branching out behind her in a V shape, guarding her flank, eyeing the restrained angels vehemently. "We have to ask one of them. We just..." she looked uncomfortable, running a hand up her arm. "We don't _hurt_ her. Ok?"

Dean smiled. "Sure. Sounds fun. I'll come back in...two days? That's how long it took to change Gadreel's mind, right?"

"A few hours, actually," Sofiel offered from behind Hannah.

Hannah sent her a silencing look, and Dean's frustration leeched off him, swirling in the air, tangible and poisonous.

Cas, however, was unmoved. "I'm not hurting her, Dean. I do that, I'm no better than him."

Dean's fist tensed around the First Blade, and beneath his shirt, Cas saw a shift of bright red, but he didn't say anything.

Cas knelt down beside her. "Patience, before more angels die, where is Metatron?"

She watched him blankly. "I'll never tell you."

Dean sighed and turned away. "Here we go."

* * *

"Where _am_ I, Crowley?" Sam demanded. "I'm in Hell, aren't I?"

Crowley shifted slightly. "Not exactly."

"Then why are _you_ here?" Sam pressed again, becoming more and more agitated. "What happened? I thought...I thought that the trials, that they _cleansed_ me―"

"You're not _in Hell_ ," Crowley growled. "Why doesn't anyone listen to me? Honestly!"

"Well, I'm not in Heaven," Sam listed sarcastically, off his fingers. "Heaven's _locked_. And I'm not with Kevin and the other souls, so that's that out as well. Where else could I be."

A beat in which Crowley redirected his gaze to the floor. "Ok. You're in Hell."

Sam swore, loudly. "I _knew_ it! Why am I in Hell?"

"Trust me," Crowley said slowly. "You don't want to know."

* * *

After ten minutes, Patience relented. Dean was surprised, only ten minutes, and she was sitting on the floor across from Cas, pouring her heart out and sobbing. She told him all about how she doesn't recognise herself anymore, doesn't recognise Heaven. That she misses tending over souls and that she misses the way things used to be. That at least under Raphael and Michael there was some _semblance_ of continuing their initial Mission, but now nothing. No humans are to be saved. Angelic politics were being pushed into overdrive.

It was _damaging._

"So, why aren't we going yet?" Dean asked, rubbing a hand through his hair. He stood right beside Cas, the angel watching his sister cry as Hannah consoled her.

"Angels aren't supposed to be able to cry," Cas murmured.

"Another trap, then?" Dean guessed.

Cas shook his head. "No, if Metatron wanted to trap us, he'd make it more personal."

Dean didn't see what was more personal than a weeping angel, crying for all the things that Cas believed too, but at least he'd implanted the thought into the angels mind. Perhaps he'd pick it up and run with it. Perhaps he'd change his plans, or something.

"Dean, you will stay here," Cas stated, his voice low and grave.

Dean jerked in confusion, turning to the angel, stunned. "Ex _cuse_ me? Stay? After all that douche has done? No, no _way,_ man! I need to be there!"

"You want to discuss bringing your brother back with Metatron, because you don't think we'll succeed," Cas said, turning to Dean, face closed, eyes fathomless. Dean sucked in an breath of air. Each word was like a stab.

How had he known? "How'd―"

"I know you Dean," Cas said simply. "Sam was dead. Metatron is powerful. This is a trap. It doesn't take a genius to guess what you'd do next."

Dean felt his face crack. "I need him back, Cas. Oh God, I _miss_ him."

"I know, Dean."

"You know, every night, when he was little, he's whisper the same goddamn words into his pillow," Dean said, staring at Cas, trying to see him _get_ it. Understand why he couldn't just leave Sam rotting with Crowley, couldn't _stand_ to remember what it was like to give his brother a Hunters burial. " _It's not forever._ I brought him back into this, Cas. I gotta get him out."

"You come with me, we take Metatron, we win," Cas said, in the same methodical pattern that he'd been addressing with during the whole conversation. "I regain my grace, _I_ bring Sam back." It was only now that Cas looked mournful. "He is my friend as well. But are you sure he _wants_ to come back?"

"Someone tries to kill themselves, you talk them off the edge," Dean stated. "Someone's dying, you try to save them. Someone mucks up, you give them a second chance. Someone deserves to live, you do everything you can."

"We will get Sam back," Cas assured him, placing his hand consolingly on his friends arm. "But we'll save the world first."

* * *

Dean, Cas and Hannah and her angels pushed through the corridors, working out where Metatron was supposed to be. Patience had given clear directions, but all the corridors were eerily similar, and it was a maze of closed doors and paintings depicting angels.

They rushed out into another open area, this time the desks set up more methodically, separated by dividers and as small as possible. The angels behind the desks stood suddenly seeing Cas, Dean and all the other angels bursting out into their workplace.

"Dean," Cas said lowly. "Hannah, the door."

The two followed his command and saw a pair of elaborate wooden doors, shut tight, a brass doorhandle beckoning to them.

"Go," Hannah said shortly, turning back to her team and ensuring they were in attack formation. "We'll hold them off."

"We have to get to the other side," Cas said, his angel blade falling from his sleeve to his hand.

"I know," Hannah replied, and her voice was tight. "Push through, then guard from the other side?"

"Risky," Dean summarised, just as Cas shook his head, stating, "Impossible."

Hannah clenched, her whole body preparing for a fight. "We have to _try_."

"No killing unless absolutely necessary," Cas ordered warningly. But it was worthless now, that order. Because they needed to get to Metatron, and these angels weren't going to stop with a disarming manoeuvre.

"Scribes," Dean read off the wall. He looked to Cas. "Good or bad?"

"Bad," Cas said, thinking of all the training that scribes got, all the things they learnt alongside soldiers. No soldiers yet though, this was still a trap, but Scribes...Cas turned fearfully to Hannah and the angels gathered behind them. They'd have their work cut out for them.

"Ready?" Hannah asked, as the angels across from them tactically lay themselves out in a defensive formation.

Cas nodded, once, sharply, and they drove through.

* * *

Metatron heard the shouts and bangs behind his door and pulled out the manuscript. He placed on his glasses and studied the paper carefully.

_A great cacophony of noise sounded like the war trumpets of Rome from behind God's doors. God watched and he would sit patiently, for the righteous man, the leader of the rebellion and the Boy King._

The door flew open and Cas and Dean stalked in, Dean clutching something grotesque and dark, Cas with blood along his lip and below his hairline.

_The Three walked in like minions of Hell, so blinded by their naivety that they closed the door, they turned to him, and started to laugh._

Metatron studied them carefully. Dean was holding the First Blade of Cain, which, while unexpected, wasn't _not_ supported by the text. And there was Cas, bloodied and murderer. Neither of them were laughing.

Metatron felt his breathing hitch. Where was Sam?

"Metatron," Cas greeted coldly, eyes a little unfocused, the shock to the head obviously more prevalent than it looked.

"Castiel and Dean Winchester," Metatron stated gloatingly. "Just as I had written you."

"Can it, Metatron," Dean snarled. "We want you dead or gone from Heaven, and we want it _now_."

"Always with the B-Grade 80's movie threat," Metatron sighed, turning about the room and moving in front of his desk. "It's all become so _expected_ , hasn't it?"

Dean moved forward and with a flick of his wrist, Metatron threw him across the room and into the wall.

"Where's the Crassus of this Triumvirate?" Metatron asked, glancing between the two. At their blank look he rolled his eyes. " _Sam_."

"Don't―"

"Boring," Metatron sighed, pushing his hand out to Dean and slamming him again in the wall.

"Dead," Castiel stated. "Not part of your plan?"

" _Everything_ is part of my plan," Metatron bit savagely. "And _all_ of this was a trap."

"We know, asshole," Cas glared. "Not your most flawless work."

Cas reached out with his blade and stabbed up at Metatron. Metatron ducked back and felt the tip of the blade cut through the uppermost layer of his skin. He hissed back and pulled out his own blade, the familiar pang of celestial energy falling smoothly into his hand.

Metatron saw the manuscript where he left it, and cursed himself.

_The three merge onto God and God is terrified, for surely the Boy King, so near and so strong will destroy Him. Utter bravery overcame God and He captured the youngest of the Cursed Brothers, holding him hostage. The image of God holding his brother forced the Righteous man to fall to his knees in admittance. Castiel was distraught, desperate. Together the Rebel's Leader and God clashed, and Castiel fell heavily to the ground, dead._

Dean was already groaning to his feet, the extra strength from the blade propelling him to move. Metatron ducked back again from Cas's blade before cutting methodically out with his, his wrist moving smoothly and strongly.

He felt the urge to just slip away, to melt into earth as he had once done. But no one would take him in now, no one would care for him, repay his kindness of extended life with literature and movies. And it made him sick, made him cold, the idea of waiting again, trapped on earth, while Heaven was controlled by Castiel, while he was hunted down.

Metatron wouldn't give in. Not now. Not after everything.

He felt Dean hold around his neck, around his left arm. He felt Dean push him toward Cas, saw the angel, rear back his blade, and closed his eyes as the angel blade pushed into his chest.

His eyes were forced open, every cell, every _atom_ of his body screaming white, bright light. The silver pressed deeper inside his chest, a thrum of intent and desire and _death_ all summarised in a small silver blade. His eyes were forced open and his mouth wrenched open for a scream as his grace exploded within him.

Metatron's body fell to the ground.


	3. Hello Resurrection, My Old Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Metatron dead, Dean and Cas can focus on objective number one, getting Sam back.
> 
> NOTES* After rewatching 9x21, I've noticed that all I have to go on that Gadreel flew was Cas's confusion about where they were and...let's be real. Cas is sort of always confused. Angels having flight isn't explicitly important to the plot, so I'll be editing that out. Thanks!

" _Nine years_!"

Dean winced as Missouri Moseley's voice heralded her opening the door. The day, even that early in the morning, was still and clam, a heavy contrast to Missouri's vehemence. Lawrence's usual windy weather had given off and the scent of spring and flowers hovered in the air, despite Winter edging its way around the corner. It was the sort of weather people walked home in, the sort of weather people smiled in.

The psychic threw the door open, bandana holding back her bushy black hair, watching Dean angrily, hands on her hips _fuming_ , short stature bristling as she took Dean in _._

"Good to see you too," Dean said, smiling easily.

Missouri snorted, letting her glare grow stronger. "I can see you haven't changed since the last time we spoke."

Dean glanced into the hallway behind her, looking into the familiar inside of her house. Comfortable and homely, a mirror and family pictures, it tugged Dean's memories of the last time that they were here. Bobby's house had been like this, obviously lived in. But with Missouri's house, it was like a time capsule for the memories that had been his life _before..._ before _everything._ "Can I come in?"

"No you may _not_ ," Missouri stated bitingly. Her arms switching from being positioned on her hips to crossed tightly over her chest. "Where's―"

She cut herself off, closing her eyes and pressing her lips together. When she looked up at Dean, her eyes were full of pity, and the severe tightness of her crossed arms began to loosen, from anger to self-comfort. "Oh, Dean, honey. I'm sorry."

Pity. Great. Dean fought to smile again, trying to pull back the 26 year old self he'd managed to so easily manifest a few moments before. Nearly a decade ago. Christ. But he couldn't. Whoever that happy little boy had been, he'd died. At some point. When Dean had sold his soul, when Sam had died, when the angels admitted their eternal interference. Name your poison.

Or maybe that smiling youth had been tortured out of him, pulling screaming from his bones as he thrashed in the pit. Worse, maybe he died despairing as Dean did what he swore to forget.

Dean gave up trying to smile and leant against the doorway, fighting himself, wanting to run away as fast as he could.

"Do you wanna come inside?" Missouri invited unsurely.

Dean managed to crack a smile at that. "What, you only let sad people in now? Some weird cult thing you joined?"

Missouri tutted disapprovingly but moved out of the way. "Respect, young man."

Dean moved passed her and tried not to gaze around in wonder as he moved through the house that he and Sam had visited way too long ago. He remembered that case. He doubted he'd ever forget it. Their old house, their mom, that poltergeist, calling his Dad, crying on the phone...

Dean cleared his throat and tried to empty his head. He knew Missouri could read him, but he didn't want to know how well.

"Alright―"

"Tea?" Missouri interrupted, looking pointedly to her couch. "Sit down. We have a lot of catching up to do."

"Uh―"

" _Tea_?"

"Yeah, thanks," Dean replied, a little shakily, moving to seat himself on the old couch that looked exactly the same as it had.

Dean blinked and shook himself out of his nostalgia. New era, new him. If he really thought about it, the picture over the television was different, and Missouri had greying hairs mopped into her curls. The cars along the street were newer and shinier, and the house was looking a little worse for wear in places he was sure had been perfectly fine a decade ago.

Oh god, this was going to hurt. He knew he shouldn't have come back. He could have gone to the psychic that Carlos recommended to him when he called around, or even just summoned Cas to see if he could help, but...he'd _wanted_ Missouri. He wanted something connected to a memory of Sam and him that wasn't clouded with grief, and he didn't want something impersonal. He wanted Sammy, little brother, fresh from college, _smiling_.

He knew he couldn't have all that, but he just wanted to go _back_.

Missouri bustled out of the kitchen, hands cupped around two steaming cups of tea.

"Don't suppose you have anything stronger?" Dean asked, pulling out that grin again.

Missouri raised her eyebrow. "Don't suppose you know what _time_ it is, boy?"

"10 ish?" Dean guessed.

Missouri snorted, but she didn't correct him. "Alright, how you been, Dean?"

"Um―"

"It's been 9 years," Missouri reminded him, seating herself opposite him, hands cupping around her drink. "Humour me."

"Uh, pretty crap, actually."

"Oh, yeah, I can imagine," Missouri nodded. Then she titled her head. "Well, I can't, but I know it can't have been an easy road for you boys. Sammy carryin' around what he was, Daddy elusive as ever." Her gaze was hawkish on him as he adamantly did _not_ respond to her words. "How is the old man?"

Dean coughed slightly. "Dead." He took a sip of tea. It was too hot, but he swallowed a mouthful of the scalding liquid anyway.

Missouri flattened her eyebrows into remorse. "Comes to us all, I guess. How'd he die?"

"Sold his soul," Dean stated cleanly. No point in lying, she'd be able to tell in an instant, but no point in pretending to enjoy it.

Missouri sucked in her breath. "That idiot. What he sell it for?"

"My life," Dean said, still purposefully aloof.

Missouri nodded, gaze lost amongst the magazines spread across the table between them. "He did love you boys. Can't say I'm surprised that that was why he did it. What happened then?"

Dean shrugged evasively.

" _Nine_ years," Missouri reminded him, eyebrows arching again. "Nine years and not a phone call, a letter, an _email,_ nothing. Nothing to let me know you were alive―"

"I get it," Dean interrupted her. His voice was too hard, so he softened it. "I do. I'm sorry. We've just been...busy."

"It's ok," Missouri said, and she looked mournful. "I just worry about you, Dean."

"I'm fine," Dean said, his voice edging up to be top harsh again.

"You're not," Missouri stated calmly. "You got some evil mark on your arm and some black blade in your car, your brothers dead..." she trailed off, hands digging into her thighs as she rested her hands onto her lap. She let the silence extend, until finally, "It's been a hard life."

"I sold my soul," Dean blurted out, before he could stop himself.

Missouri smiled sadly. "I can tell. Did you sell it for Sam? For him to come back to life? Like your Daddy for you?"

Dean nodded, taking a deep mouthful of the tea that was almost cool enough to safely consume.

"How many years you got left?" Missouri asked softly.

Dean shook his head. "I got one."

"One year left?"

Dean shook his head. "No, my contract ended five, six years ago. I got one to _begin_ with."

A beat. "Are you lying to me?"

Dean smiled, but there was no humour in his smile, not happiness. "Sister, I wish I was."

Missouri watched him, scrutinizing his every move. "Why aren't you burning five floors under?"

"Got pulled out."

"By who?"

"Angels."

"Excuse me?"

Dean swallowed. "Angels."

"Yeah, that's what I thought you said," Missouri said slowly. She shook her head, bemused. "Tell me everything."

* * *

"And that's when..." Missouri winced and gestured to Dean's arm.

"Yeah," Dean said, putting a hand self-consciously over the mark and looking pointedly away.

Missouri made a disapproving noise and placed down her empty mug of tea. "I swear, you Winchesters, you seem to make a damn mess of yourselves. Now, finally, why are you here?"

Dean smirked. "Not gonna ask me to continue my life story?"

Missouri smiled a little. "No, I can guess the rest. Cain and Abel, Cain and Colette. Abaddon. Am I close?"

"Pretty much," Dean affirmed, placing down his long finished tea. He took a steadying breath. "I need your help. It's...it's the mark."

"Is it getting stronger?" Missouri frowned.

Dean half nodded. "It was sorta fading, but I picked it up again the other day..."

"And it's starting to take over again," Missouri sighed. "Well, let me see it."

Dean extended his arm and Missouri held it in front of her eyes. She placed her fingers over it, arms both suspended over the coffee table.

Missouri's forehead clenched, eyebrows crinkling, stress pushing wrinkles into her face.

"Somethin' wrong?" Dean guessed.

Missouri peeked up at him, giving her best disparaging look. "You got the devils mark on your arm, and you're asking me if something's wrong?"

"It's not the―"

"Hush!"

Dean obeyed and promptly closed his mouth.

Missouri stayed like that for a while, eyes closed, mouth pinched shut, forehead clenched with some sort of pain, hand pressed over the Mark of Cain.

Dean watched her, and now that he could study her openly, he could see that, apart from the few grey hairs in her head, she didn't look that much different. Perhaps she just aged impeccably well, or it was something to do with her psychic stuff, but if he could squint his eyes and wipe his mind, it _was_ nine years ago. He was worried about his Dad, Sam was worried about him, he was worried about Sam. All they had was each other and the world had seemed _massive_.

" _I just want us to be a family again._ "

Dean followed Missouri's lead and closed his eyes.

"Dean," Missouri said, a few moments later. "You want the good news or bad news?"

"There's good news?" Dean asked, opening his eyes, pulling his arm away as Missouri sat back into her chair.

Missouri managed to smile. "I know. Ain't it a miracle?" Missouri sighed and smoothed her hands over her front. "Good news is, I can dampen the effect that the mark has on you."

"What's the bad news?" Dean asked.

"It'll last two, three months," Missouri said. And then she looked at him apologetically. "And when it comes back, it'll be as thought it had never been gone."

"So all the ground it would have made if it wasn't dormant will come and kick me in the ass," Dean said, tasting something bitter in the back of his throat. He sighed and ran his hand over his face. "Is there any way to get rid of it? Forever?"

Missouri shook her head. "Pass it on, that's the only way. Find some goodness in something and hand it to them. They have to be worthy to accept the mark, like you, like Cain."

"Right," Dean muttered. "Thanks, Missouri."

"Ok," Missouri said, and stood. "Lunch, and then we'll start."

"Pie?"

"If I'd known you were coming―"

"You _did_ know I was coming!"

"Why? Because I'm psychic? I'm sorry honey, but not even _I_ could have foreseen this."

* * *

They sat opposite each other, the ground decorated with white chalk in a zigzagging star.

Missouri had let her hair out of the bandana and had a topaz and tigers eye medallion tied carefully around her neck. She had her eyes closed, one hand extended over each of the candles she'd lit for the ceremony. One tallow and one wax, one lit in the north of the house, one in the south.

Both of them were as red as blood. Dean shifted uncomfortably as she started to chant.

" _O, Frater, sorores"_ she crooned. " _O, Spiriti_."

_Oh Brother, sister, oh spirits._

" _Quid virum ferte,_ " Carry this man. " _Et_ , _Signum, dormite!_ " And, Mark, sleep! " _Expergiscere nolo sine me vox_!" Do not wake without my voice!

Dean closed his eyes as his mark began to burn, pushing poison and heat into his blood stream. He bit back a scream and clenched his jaw solid as the spell began to take effect.

But then he felt it, softness, trickling through his veins after the poison like soothing fingers, ice on a burn. He felt his anger melt away, his drive, the _push_ for death and destruction delving to the back of his mind.

He could still feel it, feel it tinkering away at the back of his mind, but it was _gone_ , asleep, dormant.

Dean opened his eyes and let out a shaky breath of relief. He looked across at Missouri and she smiled.

"Tea?"

* * *

"What's the time?" Missouri asked idly, looking around the room to her large grandfather clock. She widened her eyes in surprise. "Oh my, it's nearly night time. Where are you staying?"

"3 hours away," Dean answered evasively.

"You can't drive at this late time," Missouri stressed.

"I'll be fine," Dean said, finding it comforting for someone to take such a vested interest in his wellbeing. It was a nice change, God, it was just _nice_. The last time someone had mother hen'd him had been Sam―

Missouri sighed and stood as he did, at exactly the same time. "Alright then, I can see you've made up your mind."

"Thanks, Missouri," Dean said, laced with sincerity. Because, God, there it was, lost at the back of his thoughts. The blade was in his car, but he couldn't feel the usual incessant tug that he'd come to associate with it

"You're very welcome, Dean," she smiled again, and Dean was beginning to think that perhaps she was right. Nine years was a very long time.

"I'm sorry, by the way," he added, and Missouri raised her eyebrows in question. "For the near decade thing."

Missouri tutted and lead him to the front door. "Well, that apology was certainly long in coming."

"Yeah," Dean rubbed his hand on the back of his neck, waiting for Missouri to open the door. He headed passed her and into the sinking sunlight, passing through the doorway, taking a deep breath.

"Hey, Dean," Missouri said, and he turned to see her watching him, that smile still dotting her lips. "You get Sam back, and then you bring him here, kay?"

Dean nearly opened his mouth to speak, but rammed it shut, nodding, not trusting himself.

"That boy," Missouri shook her head. "I mean, I was _nice_ to him. I was rude to you."

"You're still rude to me," Dean reminded her.

Missouri scowled, but he could see it was good natured. "Yep, not an inch of change from you over ten years. Now, you keep in touch, you hear?"

"On it," Dean promised.

He headed out to the impala, but he didn't miss the "I mean it this time!" she directed to his turned back.

* * *

"Caretaker of Heaven?" Cas demanded, glancing to Hannah, who winced as he turned his incredulity on her. "Are you all _serious_?"

Hannah bit her lip. "I'm sorry, but it's unanimous."

The two were in Metatron's study, ripped barren of all its previous occupants belongings. Metatron had left a lot in his death, left a stain of wings on the carpet and millennia of secrets in his books and tied parcels of paper. Cas had had his angels working through it, directed by Seraphina, who had been a scribe before she'd joined Cas's forces, and Romeo, who was soft on Seraphina, the two had found each other first after the fall.

Cas sat in there now, just so people would know where to find him if they needed order, if they needed something to do. He'd spoken so often of the same thing that it was doing his head in.

Cas sighed and ran his hand through his hair. It had been a day, a day on earth terms and infinity within a second in heaven. Everything was happening slowly, and Cas was already tired of the politics. He didn't _want_ to be the leader, the appointed Caretaker. He just wanted to be an angel, as tired as he was of saying it, it was  _true_.

Hannah cleared her throat. "On a more positive note, we can replenish your grace whenever you want."

"It's prepared?" Cas asked, standing. Then he looked down. "Have they...is there any progress on the, uh, other thing?"

"Naomi's Influence?" Hannah replied unsurely, using the nickname it'd been given. "Not yet. It seems that touching the angel tablet was the only way to free someone from it. But so far, it seems that wherever Metatron hid the thing, it's hidden well."

"Balthazar had collected weapons of mass destruction," Cas mused to himself, more than to Hannah. "Maybe there'd be something in that?"

"Do you know where it is?" Hannah asked.

Cas shook his head, distracted. "He never told me. Can't say I blame him, I was sort of..." he trailed off and clinched his mouth to the side. Hannah gave an uncomfortable cough and Cas jerked himself out of his stupor.

"Sorry. Where was it?"

"It was with Metatron's scrolls," Hannah explained, leading him to the door and opening it for him, exposing the hustle of the corridor outside his room, where angels had died and Hannah and Cas's angels under her command had defended Metatron's door as Cas and Dean had ended the temporary God. "A spell."

"What does it need?" Cas asked.

Hannah shrugged daintily. "Nothing much. Nothing we can't get immediately."

Cas had missed this, thousands of angels with their wings, the world to be searched within moments. He'd found it so painfully slow to be a human, to walk around instead of fly, to drive instead of instantly teleport. It gave him more a feel for humanity, gave him more of an understanding of those left under their care, but he didn't have to like it.

"Ok," he said, and took a deep breath. "Ok."

Hannah smiled and led him off to the rooms, not dissimilar to the one Naomi had used on him to try and get him to kill Dean and Sam.

Cas hesitated by the doorway, taking in the bright white, the softly talking angels surrounding the ingredients for the spells, Hannah's smile.

He swallowed and tried not to materialise away, not that he could anyway. Not unless he took another step, and then another, and then settled into the chair. Not unless he moved into that room and revisited those terrors... _No._

"Cas?" Hannah asked, obtuse, frowning at his stilled figure. "Everything ok?"

 _No_. "Fine, just―"

Hannah's eyes widened as she understood. It wasn't instant, it wasn't perfect, but it was there nevertheless. _Empathy._ God given, undeniable _empathy_.

Cas could only watch in surprise as she came to his elbow to help him into the room.

"It's ok," she said softly, easily, her face twitching only in the slightest. None of the other angels waiting around to help would notice anything avidly wrong with the picture. None would be able to see the obvious. "I'll be here."

Cas's heart warmed as she led him carefully to the chair, seating him down and waiting by his side patiently. Voices sounded behind him but Cas didn't react, focusing on Hannah, her warmth, her firm grip on his arm. Not overpowering, but secure. _I'm here, I've got you. This is going to be ok._

Cas couldn't remember a time like this, a time when an angel, one of his sisters, had comforted him like this, _mothered_ him like this. Cas sunk carefully back into the leather of the seat and stared unseeingly towards the ceiling.

It was nice, to have friends. Nice to have friends in Hannah. She was a good angel.

Her kindness made him ache for something he hadn't really realised he'd missed. Made him ache for Rachel and Anna, for Balthazar and Gabriel and Muriel. For Joshua who no one had seen since the fall. For all those angels who so easily could have bent their power, to dominate, to kill, but didn't.

Cas reflected that perhaps the exception to that rule was Anna, but as he looked around the room, his eyes widened, his breathing slowed.

Cas wondered, then, how long _Anna_ had spent getting her mind wiped, until they'd seen that she was fit to go.

And that, all of that, was on Cas. For giving her back to them. For giving in.

"Cas?" Hannah's voice broke him from the events of a few years ago and into the now. Quite appropriately, he thought. Cas blinked up at her and she smiled. "This is gonna hurt, but we're doing it as fast as we can. Are you alright?"

Cas nodded, settled back, rigidly set his jaw, and prepared for his new grace.

* * *

The Bunker shuttered empty as Dean opened up the door. It was sort of surreal, going through life without his severely increased strength, like all that time he'd been building up had been something, and this was the proof. No matter how much he'd tried to ignore it, no matter how much he would have liked to believe either way.

Dean flicked the lights on and moved slowly down the stairs, feet thudding against the floor in a slow, rhythmic waltz. Here they'd been, collecting their things responding to that kids fiancée's murder in Ohio. Here they'd been, terse nods their main mode of communication, gazes fixed pointedly away from each other, making sure that the other one wasn't looking when they did stop, when they did watch.

Dean's hand clenched on the rail and his fingers itched firmly on the strap of his duffel bag. Oh god, he knew he shouldn't have come back.

Everything was left as though they were going to come back, Sam's jacket spread easily across the back of one of the chairs in the library, a dirty coffee mug placed down as his brother had rushed to get ready. Books were fixed, spread out, across the top.

Dean idly went over, dumping his bag on the ground, near where the stairs finished up to the library. He walked forward slowly. Dean looked down and saw the books that Sam had had open. Demonic law, or, more specifically, the Knights of Hell.

Dean smiled, thin lipped, eyes glazed.

He ducked his head and felt his hand ball into a fist.

With a scream, he wrenched the table over, the books going flying through the air. Some part of his brain triggered that this is what he'd done when Kevin died, but Dean didn't care, not anymore. Because as much as that had hurt, this hurt more. Sure, maybe it was _selfish_ to want his brother back, _selfish_ to have kept him safe with Crowley, but really...

Dean's fingers throbbed, but he threw the chair hard against the wall anyway, it slamming into the books and crashing to the floor.

Dean let out a moan as he slammed his fist into the side of the table, feeling his anger surge within him, feeling all that _angst_ and _insecurity_ fly and fight and flee and then _I want my brother back_ crashing inside him, howling and howling, like it would never stop, like he would never stop, the crashing of waves and blood and blood and blood―

Dean took a deep, deep, steadying breath. He stilled. He let his hands drop, let his fingers uncurl. Let himself slide slowly to the floor, taking in all the destruction.

He sat like that for a while, just watching, just seeing. Waiting.

He nodded to himself, stood, and bent to start fixing the table.

 _Sam'll be home soon,_ he thought idly, righting the chairs, frowning at the crack in the leg. _Can't have him worry..._

Dean paused, blinked, but he didn't start moving again. Because what if he _didn't_ come back and there was _always_ something and what if _Crowley_ _―_

Dean stood like that for a long time, hands clasped around the broken chair, staring at the broken leg, utterly numb.

* * *

Cas came back in blinks. He drifted awake, in a slow sort of crawl. No shocks or falling, just drifting along the world like he had all the time, now and then and forever.

"Hey, Cas," Hannah said, and he recognised her. He anchored onto where he had heard her call from and pulled himself into wakefulness. His eyes were still blurry as that broke apart, lashes dusting each other as he blinked the sleepiness out.

"'Annah," he managed. Then he swallowed and forced himself more aware. "Did everything―"

Hannah was beaming. "Everything went perfectly."

Cas settled back into the leather of the chair, tilting his head to get a better look of the room. Runes were painted on the walls, fading from bright and white to more simplistic paint. The room was devoid of the angels who'd been murmuring about before he'd closed his eyes and lost himself.

He turned to Hannah curiously, who was watching him with a small, ecstatic smile. "Where―"

"I sent them out," Hannah said. "Didn't want you to...freak out."

"Freak out?" Cas asked, sitting up, wincing.

Hannah nodded. "You were asleep and..." she paused and looked worried. "I'm not sure, but isn't disorientation a common attribute to coming out of a stupor?"

Cas couldn't help the smile that dawned across his lips. "It is. Well done, Hannah."

Hannah's face lit up, and she beamed.

"So it's―"

"All there," Hannah assured him. "Grace, wings, everything."

Cas was silent for a moment. "Any news on the reversal of Metatron's spell?"

Hannah shook her head. "We've opened up a hundred other staircases while you were asleep, and reapers have been sent out to collect souls, but other than that..."

"We're on our own," Cas finished grimly. With a sigh he heaved himself upright, feeling something icy and strange slither down his spine as he recognised the new grace shift inside of him.

"What do we do now?" Hannah asked, hovering a foot away, hands flexed, as if preparing to hold him if he swayed.

"Keep looking," Cas ordered. "I have a favour to give."

"Sam?" Hannah guessed, and Cas nodded, looking at her warily. He wondered if she'd try to stop him, try to take the reins, try to remind him of the nature of life and death, and the flimsiness of mortality.

But she just frowned determinedly and lifted her chin. "Do you need me to help?"

Cas watched her for the breadth of a second, and this time when the smile ordered at the sides of his mouth, he captured it, broadcasted it, grinning like he hadn't since he was human. "Thank you, very much, Hannah. But this is something that I can do alone."

Hannah was silent for a moment. "It's over, isn't it?"

"Nearly," Cas agreed.

"I mean, _over_ ," Hannah stressed, looking down. "All that humanity, and now...we're just _angels_ again."

Cas wanted to move to comfort her, wanted to assure her that it was _good_ , that being an angel was _good_. But he couldn't, not with what she knew, not with what she felt. It said something, about his sister, that she should still want to live on earth, still want to feel the things she'd felt, after witnessing death and destruction and the worst that everything had to offer.

It said something about _all_ of them.

Hannah darted forward, and before she could lose her nerve, kissed him on the cheek. A farewell, soft as a hummingbird, warm and homely as fresh bread.

And so it was that Cas smiled as he sat up, and thanked her as he got to his feet.

* * *

"Finished?" Dean asked, looking across as Cas placed the last of the ingredients in a bowl to summon Crowley.

Cas nodded, standing up and dusting his hands on the side of his trench coat. The dungeon, as it was so lovingly put, echoed around them in mock sincerity, the devils trap etched simply in the middle of the ground. Trapping Crowley might not put him in the best of moods, but it was better than nothing. At least with this they had some sort of leverage over him. "Are you ready, Dean?"

Ready for what? For Crowley to come, smirking, holding Sam's soul ransom, his earlier promise just another cross next to Dean's name? Or ready for his brother to come back, safe and sound and _not_ covered in blood, _not_ begging his brother to kill him?

 _Neither_ , Dean wanted to say. _And both_.

"Sure," Dean grunted, pulling his matches out of the back of his jeans. "Let's do this."

"Two feet first always has been the Winchester way," Cas muttered, casting Dean a worried glance.

Dean sighed, ignored the angel and ran a hand through his hair. "Ok," he said, and pulled out a match. "Ready?"

Cas nodded affirmation and Dean let the match fall into the bowl, where it hit the ingredients and burnt acrid as sparks leapt up and over the sides.

There was a drawn out silence as the fire blanked away to nothing.

Dean stared hard at where Crowley would be appearing.

A few moments passed and Cas held his hands together awkwardly.

Another few, and it didn't look like Dean was breathing.

"Dean―"

"Wait," Dean said, and Cas could tell it was supposed to be rude and biting, but all he saw was the sincerity, the doubt, the desperation. "He'll come. He has to."

" _Dean_ ," Cas insisted. "If he doesn't come―"

"There's still time."

"I could send Hannah―"

"That brain dead―"

" _Be respectful,_ Dean."

"Fine. That _half_ brain dead―"

"I can see that you're being _entirely_ ridiculous on this matter."

"Damn right," Dean's jaw was tight. "Pretty sure I'm _allowed_ ―"

"Oh, here we go," Crowley groaned, rolling his eyes and standing comfortably inside the devils trap. "Another 'Dean the Deserving Martyr Speech'."

"Crowley," Dean said, his voice a comfortable mix between resentment and relief.

Cas turned and the two took each other in.

Crowley's lip curled. "Cas. How's the family doing?"

"Fine," Cas said. "How's hell?"

"Fine," Crowley responded easily.

"Where's Sam's soul?" Dean demanded, eyeing Crowley, not seeing the typical briefcase.

Crowley tutted and pulled out an amulet from his pocket. "So tetchy. I promised, didn't I?"

Dean held his hand out, shaking, to the gold horned amulet dangling from Crowley's fingertips. The demon was watching him oddly. But Dean didn't respond, didn't give him anything to read off.

Because it was _the_ amulet.

And as he held it, it was _warm_. Warm and alive, and there was something in it that tickled at his fingers, pushed against his skin. Something there and pulsating and alive. Something that sung of scruffy brown hair and hidden smiles, sunflower eyes and a shoulder shifting comfortably against his. Something that sang out, long and hard; _home, home, home._

Cas asked the question he wasn't able to articulate. "Why did you find this?"  His tone was demanding, shocked, but nothing like Dean's would have been. No gasping or crying or fidgeting.

"Funniest thing," Crowley said. "I found it in the bottom of this motel bin. Thought someone mustn't have wanted it, so I kept it. Finders keepers, eh?"

"Answer the question, Crowley," Dean ordered, letting his fingers grasp hold of the black string that had worn long and hard against his neck, finding for a few seconds the sense of mind to unravel the mystery.

Crowley looked miffed now. "Souls without bodies need something to hold onto, don't they? Something _close_ to them? Something that might symbolise a need for living beyond death?"

Dean drew in a focused on the swinging charm dangling from his charm. It made sense, that Sam's soul would be connected to this. Because the world was saved, wasn't it? As saved as it was going to get. The only reason Sam had to hang around was family, and nothing really spelt out family like the amulet Dean hadn't taken off for years...well, had worn until their disastrous trip to heaven.

"May I―?" Cas asked awkwardly, holding out his hand at Dean's side, the amulet hovering a few inches above his palm.

"Oh, yeah man, sure," Dean said, letting the necklace fall and regretting it immediately, suddenly feeling a lot worse than he had been, with the amulet wound around his hand, singing back old memories. That Christmas, that present, his little brother smiling as Dean pushed the necklace over his head.

"Heart warming," Crowley commented. "Can I go?"

"Wait," Dean said, despite that Crowley wouldn't have been able to leave without Dean helping him from the devils trap. "Why'd you..." he trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence without making Sam's resurrection more draining than it already would be.

Hell's king shrugged lazily. "I always pay off my debts, remember?"

"But―" Dean hadn't _given_ him anything. Nothing but his trust, and a good deal of threats of bodily harm.

Crowley gave him a sharp look. "Don't ask, don't tell. Clear?"

"Crystal," Dean returned the look with equal fever.

There was a silence that was interrupted by a soft cough from Cas's end. "Uh, I believe I know how to resurrect your brother."

Crowley glared at them both. "May I _go_? I have a plateau of consciousness to overrule, you know."

Dean bent down and adjusted the trap so that Crowley could step out. Without another word the demon vanished, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of sulphur and the amulet, encased entirely within Cas's hand.

"He is an odd fellow," Cas frowned at where Crowley had been standing.

"Cas, Sam," Dean reminded him, a little forcefully. "You said you had an idea."

"Do you remember Adam?" Cas asked, looking up at Dean, frowning slightly as he ran his thoughts alongside each other.

Dean didn't have to cast far back in his mind to remember his little half brother burning in the depths of Hell, the only plaything for Lucifer and Michael. "Sure. What of him?"

"He crawled up from a coffin," Cas explained. "Like you when I rescued you from hell."

"And?" Dean waved his hand irritably to get Cas to hurry on with his story.

"You burnt him, Dean," Cas said slowly. "Gave him a _hunters_ funeral."

"A cemetery?" Dean asked, understanding.

Cas nodded. "And an empty grave."

Dean set his jaw in determination. "I know one. A few miles from here. Shouldn't take long to drive."

Cas nodded slowly. "As long as there's an empty grave, we should be fine."

Dean was already taking off out of the dungeons double doors. "C'mon."

* * *

The graveyard was a large one, large enough that as they looked through the misty haze of early morning, they couldn't make the back. An eternity of gravestones spilled out before them, guarded by a pair of iron gates and two snarling gargoyles. If it weren't for the upkeep of the grace, the place had a detached, abandoned feel. Like these were people who no one coming to see them. Like these were graves that would be and had been forever bare of flowers or pictures. Skeletons and souls devoid of love.

Dean shivered, and he told himself it was the weather. Cas pressed his hand to the gate and his broke open, white light flaring from his palm, the doors sliding creakily to either side. "Well, that was useful. Sure you can waste Grace on that?"

"Yes," Cas agreed, walking off, Dean huffing and hurrying to keep up with him. "Ever since I got my Grace back, it's being able to do these things that remind me all the good that it entails."

Dean felt a little guilty for not bringing up the Grace debacle with his friend while they had prepared to talk with Crowley, but he felt like he could be excused, and Cas obviously didn't blame him for it, moving steadily through the site, not looking overly put out, other than the incessant frown of concentration.

"Anything?" Dean pressed.

Cas shook his head. "Nothing."

Dean hurried up to fall in step with Castiel. "Wha―"

Cas raised up his hand for silence.

Dean frowned. "Ca―"

Cas hushed him with a withering look.

Dean held his hands up in surrender. "Fine, man. Whatever."

Cas ignored him and Dean could tell that he was trying his hardest not to roll his eyes. He stood very still and Dean watched him impatiently.

Cas looked at him, and when their eyes met, Dean saw that the recently powered up angel was smiling. "I've got one."

* * *

Dean should have realised that there'd be honour graves, ones erected in order for the family to have some sort of closure, celebrate some sort of end. That there must be some deaths where the body didn't show up, that there were empty caskets buried deep into the earth, chock full and _heavy_ with all that it _didn't_ hold.

What Dean didn't know was that the first one Cas would find would be the non-grave for a child. Where the body was, he wasn't sure. How the kid had died, he could only guess. But the absent grave of Lacy Taylor was serving him now, and wherever she was, whether she was blissful in heaven or watching from the inbetween layer, limbo, he wanted to thank her.

Dean sat back beside the grave as Cas tended to it, drawing rigid lines in the dirt, still holding the amulet. Dean itched to snatch it out of his hands and just... _hold_ it. Feel Sam's warmth dawning on him again, his little brother's homeliness settling upon him. Comforting him.

But Dean knew that that was ridiculous, that Cas bringing Sam back was a thousand, a million times better than the faint idea of Sam's essence that he got from rubbing his fingers on the amulet of a necklace.

No matter how important the necklace was, no matter how much he needed it, adored it.

Cas dropped the necklace onto the dirt and took an unsteady step back, staggering until Dean jumped up and steadied him.

"You ok?" Dean asked, setting him carefully, stepping back, but still close enough to jump in again if he needed to.

Cas nodded, a little pale, but he looked content, _happy_ , healthy. "I will be fine, Dean."

"How―"

"He will be waking up soon," Cas said softly, gazing at the dirt of the grave. And Dean watched with him, trepidation and nervousness tripping over each other in the deepest depths of his stomach.

Dean nodded and sat down carefully at the foot of the grave. He looked up to Cas. "How long?"

"Not all that much time will pass," Cas said clinically. "His body must reform, and then he must awake. He will be exhausted. For now and a few days."

Dean nodded again, to Cas and to himself, and tucked his cold hands against his body and under his arms.

"It was a good choice, this graveyard," Cas mentioned, looking around, eyebrows clenched slightly together as he took in the spilling green hills and the eternity of grey slabs of concrete. When Dean looked at him quizzically, he tilted his head towards one of the large, walk in graves. The sort that people bought if they were rich and born in the 1800's. "It's a portal to Heaven."

"Wait, shit, really?" Dean almost got up, but then the newly turned dirt across the top of the grave seemed to shudder.

"I will take my leave now," Cas told him, turning away to where the portal was. "Goodbye, Dean. Tell Sam I said hi."

Dean almost told him to come back, almost wished for him to stay...but he  _didn't_. Because when Sam came to, he wanted it to be just them. Just  _them_. Like with Missouri, like a decade ago.

And so Cas disappeared off into the building, and Dean turned back to the dirt, the dirt that was  _definitely_ shifting now, before he saw the flash of light that told him Cas had returned home.

Dean jerked forward and started digging, hands pushing the dirt across.

 _Damn it, why did I forget a shovel_ ―

and

_Dirt and breathing and c'mon, brother, little brother, you can do it._

and

 _Sam Sammy, Sam, Sam, Sam_ _―_

Again and again in his head, overlapping, coercing, jumbling to a chorus.

Dean felt his heart skip as the dirt beneath him shifted. He cursed himself for his short-sightedness and leapt to the side of the grave, knees fixed to the grass.

When a hand reached out numbly from the ground, Dean grabbed it, gasping with relief, laughing, both hands secured on Sam, one through his fingers and another around his wrist.

As the dirt shifted, the lines of the spell broke and the amulet fell within the separating dirt, folding within the dark brown earth. But Dean didn't focus on that, _care_ about that. All he cared about was that hand, his brother, _Sam_.

Dean turned back to the grave and pulled, a sleeved arm emerging first, then a shoulder, and then with another push, Sam's gasp sounded over the deserted cemetery.

Dean heaved again and Sam staggered out of the ground, dirt dusting across his mouth, eyelashes, caught in his hair, gritty along his skin and staining his clothes.

Dean tugged him up, holding Sam by the shoulders as he stared at his brothers face.

Sam's eyes peeked open, first as slits and then, blinking, into full operation.

Sam coughed. "D'n―"

Dean rushed forward and pulled his brother into a hug, trapping Sam against him, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Slotting in like he belonged there, Sam's unsteady breaths sounding in his ears.

Dean closed his eyes and felt Sam's warmth, his solidness and the firm beat of his heart beneath Dean's chest. _Thump,_ and again, like it was crying out to him.

I'm here, _I'm here_.

Thump, _thu-thump_.

"Sam," Dean said, and his voice cracked, so he just held on tighter, eyes closing again when he felt Sam's hands move, returning the embrace.

"I'm ok," Sam said, sitting back, and Dean let him go, mostly, hand positioned onto Sam's arm. Dean watched as Sam took him in, staring, eyes wide breathing settling down. Sam nodded, and then there was a smile, pure and fleeting, but there all the same. "I'm ok."

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, hand clenching into Sam's shirt, the fabric on his sleeve bunching up as Dean's fingers dug in.

 _Real_ and _here_ and _home_ and _Sam._

"Hey," Sam greeted, still dazed, eyes glazing over, not quite meeting Dean's as he stared at his brothers face.

Dean stood and helped Sam up, still clutching onto his arm, still maintaining that hold, that tie. Soul to soul, hand to arm, skin to cloth.

Sam swayed and Dean caught him, steadying him, looking up carefully as Sam blinked into comprehension.

"You right?" Dean asked, setting Sam carefully onto his feet, still keeping that hold. _Soul to soul._

"I'm good," Sam said, bracing himself by standing with his feet apart. He pushed his gritty hair back from his face. "I'm―I'm fine."

"Hey man, at least Cas managed to get some clothes onto you," Dean said, taking his brother in. Simply dressed in a single shirt and a pair of jeans and Sam's usual pair of boots _was_ pretty much naked from his brothers point of view, who always seemed to have seven layers on. Even in summer.

Sam managed half a laugh, still a little breathless, reaching his hand up and letting it rest by Dean's collarbone. "Thank you, Dean."

He let his hand fall back to his side and Dean reluctantly let his hold on Sam's shirt fall away.

Dean smiled and Sam responded in kind, and the amulet that his brothers soul had been attached to shifted in the dirt, in the place where a small girls body should have been at rest.

* * *

"And they're both ok?" Hannah asked, sitting prim and proper across from Cas in Metatron's study. She was worried, of that she could admit to herself. Sam had been her friend, for all that the word entailed, and she had _hurt_ when he'd died. She'd _felt_.

Cas looked across at her, dwarfed by the massive desk Metatron had called his own. It had been mostly cleared out now, with the odd scrap floating around across the top. Next to Cas was a pile of paper in the form of a report, the response to the angel's who'd been altered by Metatron's through Naomi's Influence. None of it was looking good, and Cas was looking more and more gaunt with every piece of bad news that came their way.

Despite his worry, Hannah still saw him as a potential leader. Because if there was anyone who could teach the angels about redemption, it was Cas.

"They're both fine," Cas assured her. "Now, back to the souls. How are they being transported?"

"Reapers are working on taking as many as they can at once, but it's a slow process," Hannah recited. "And we lost some on earth."

"Went rogue?" Cas asked.

Hannah shrugged. "That and died."

Cas looked thoughtful. "Can I instate other angels to the roles of Reapers?"

"You need to be trained for it," Hannah said slowly. "But maybe. I was a Negotiator before it was made redundant by Michael and Raphael. Angels _can_ switch duties. It's just..." Hannah made a face,

"Unheard of," Cas summarised blatantly. He sighed. "We'll need volunteers."

Hannah gave a small approving smile. "Right away."

"The angel tablet," Cas added. "Has anyone found that yet? Sensed it?"

"Seraphina said that she sensed it when she was opening the doorway to Egypt, but..." Hannah scrunched up her nose and made her disbelief in Seraphina obvious. "So no. No ground made up on that end."

Cas just smiled. "Fair enough. Seraphina is not always the most... _promising_ source."

"I just wonder..." Hannah started awkwardly, looking away when she caught Cas watching her, head tilted to the side. What she was going to say...to any other leader Heaven had had in the past infinity, this would have been utter blasphemy, of the highest order. Her rank as Commander would have been ripped off her, thousands of years she would have been left to rot in the jail. But she trusted Cas, trusted him to understand where her heart was. "If any of this will be enough."

Cas looked at her, compassionate. "Why?"

"It's just..." Hannah stared at her hands, curled politely on her lap. "We find the angel tablet and hope that it fixes the angels locked under Metatron's control, and then if that works, _pray_ to our absent father that they accept you as their stand in head."

"Not all of them were under Naomi's Influence," Cas reminded her. "And they've accepted me. And it would make sense for Metatron to want to control those most likely to want to come to my side."

"I suppose," Hannah acknowledged. But she tilted her head. "But what? We somehow translate the Word and find a counterspell for the locking of the gate, and then? We go back to the way things were? Garrisons living under the skies of heaven, promised things that were never going to happen?" Cas was silent, so she ploughed on. "Like the apocalypse, and Lilith. To stop them. And then, when they said that the apocalypse was coming to pass, and we knew, we _knew_ , that they'd done it on purpose, we just couldn't make ourselves care enough, because," she felt her hands square into fists. "Because _humanity_ didn't matter enough. All those souls didn't matter enough. _Lives_. We'll go back to that...to that messed up _detachment_ and I just _can't_. I won't watch myself turn into that monster again."

Cas was utterly quiet as he absorbed her words, and, embarrassed, Hannah stared at her fingers as they clenched around each other. She was _terrified_. She couldn't go back. She _wouldn't_.

"I promise that I won't let anyone but the most fit take over my role," Cas promised. His voice was low and sincere, enough that Hannah looked up and met him, eyes meeting. "And I promise, to you and all the angels, that things will _never_ be the way they were."

Hannah gave a small smile.

Cas reached across the table and she followed suit. Their clasped hands met in the middle. Much like the time that Hannah had kissed Cas on the cheek, this was compassion, family. This was two friends, consoling each other over the fate of the universe.

* * *

To Sam, the car ride back had been an...experience. Dean had taken a deep breath, staring ahead through the windscreen of the car and told Sam everything.

Metatron and Crowley, Sam's soul, his funeral pyre. Everything. Down to Tessa telling Dean what Sam had been doing within the veil. Gadreel dying, angels having two names...everything.

But of all of it, there was one thing Sam took most to heart. "You used the blade again."

Dean stilled at Sam's words and Sam could feel his brothers regret bubbling below the surface.

"Look, Sammy―"

"I just..." Sam interrupted, huddling down in the passenger seat, watching as the world charged passed his window, dirt streaked face reflected in the glass. "It was making you something you weren't, Dean. You know that, right?"

"I know," Dean said rigidly. "I uh, saw Missouri―"

"Wait, wait," Sam glanced over to Dean, despite the mood, a smile manifesting across his lips. "Missouri _Moseley_? That psychic from Lawrence? The one who threatened you with a spoon?"

Dean smiled as well. "That'd be her."

"Wow," Sam shook his head. "That'd have to be―"

"9 years," Dean finished dryly. "Yeah, she reminded me once or twice."

Sam grinned. Actually grinned. He remembered Missouri with an odd sort of fondness. The whole trip to Lawrence had been emotionally draining for them both. Sam had nearly died a few times, Dean had nearly died a few times, Mary had appeared to save them and two siblings growing up with an only parent? In _their_ house?

Hit a little close to home.

And Missouri had been entangled in the middle, with them from the start and promising to be with them till the end...not that they'd exactly _let_ her.

"How is she?"

"Angry that we haven't called."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, I can imagine."

"Sam," Dean said, and his voice was grave. Sam settled back, waiting for his brothers explanation. There was a rigid silence before Dean spoke. "You know, Cain, promised his wife that he wouldn't kill, when he accidentally killed her."

Sam frowned but didn't say anything.

Dean stared hard at the road. "He gave up the oath because he found something to fight for again."

"Cain _belongs_ to the blade," Sam reminded him. "That desire―"

"I didn't _want_ to use it," Dean said, as if he was just realising it himself. "It felt...perverse, I guess. After I promised you. But Cas needed help with Metatron. And we did it, we _did_ it, Sammy. Metatron's dead. So...I _understand_ , but... _please_ don't be mad. Can we..." he spared a moment to look at Sam, who was watching him with an unreadable expression, marred even more so by how dirty his face was. "Can we _please_ not fight?"

Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His already gritted fingernails pulled away more dirt. "I'm not mad, Dean."

Dean frowned, stealing another moment to look at Sam. "You're not?"

"I'm not mad about...any of it," Sam admitted. "I'm glad that you told me. I guess...it was too much to ask. If it had been me..." he dwindled off, not wanting to state openly how far he'd go, how many oaths he'd break to bring Dean back. He cleared his throat and set the conversation down a different path. "How is it now?"

Dean shook his head. "That's why I went to Missouri. She dampened the effect. Did the usual Magic Fingers and capped me off."

"Good," Sam said, and he felt a surge of relief. "That's really...that's _awesome_ Dean."

There was a silence, which Dean filled with messing around with the radio, looking for the channel he went for whenever he got sick of the same three cassette tapes he listened to.

"Dude, did you say 'Magic Fingers'?" Sam scrunched up his nose. "I just...ugh. That's kinda rank, man."

Dean glared at him, sitting back, the Sweet blaring out of the speakers. "Shut up."

Sam sat back into a relaxed silence.

Dean clenched his jaw. "Oh God. I _hate_ this song."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> Hello Resurrection, my Old Friend : comes from a line from a song, the Sound of Silence, by Simon & Garfunkel "Hello darkness my old friend". 
> 
> Magic Fingers: The massage bed that Dean was overly fond of when Sam placed him under house arrest in 'House of the Holy'.
> 
> The Sweet, the band Dean turns onto the radio when he and Sam are in the car is best known for 'Ballroom Blitz' and 'Fox on the Run'. You either love 'em or you hate 'em. And I thought hate 'em fitted in more with Dean's MO about old bands and good music.


	4. Return of the Jedi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So now we can pop back into the typical, case-of-the-week style of the show. Cue the bros being bros and the COMPLETELY UNFORESEEN GOOD JOB MEGAN YEAH THANKS return of an old favourite.
> 
> Things Researched: 30's Slang, towns in Southern South Dakota, plot lines for movies, release dates for movies, history of colour TV and colour movies, release date of the Wizard of Oz (movie)
> 
> Rewatch: 9x04 Slumber Party

"Stop― _stop_!"

Sue scowled, pushing her brush through her sisters hair, wrestling with the tangles.

"You're _hurting_ me!" Rachel snarled, jerking away and running her hand over her hair, picking off the bumps that Sue's brush had left. "Can you just _stop_?"

Sue crossed her arms over her chest. The 16 year old had a nasty habit of turning 12 years younger when she didn't get her way. "You're the one who _asked_ me to do it!"

"Yeah," Rachel agreed. "Do my hair. Not _rip it out of my scalp_."

"Ooo, big words, little girl."

Rachel looked at her big sister, at a loss. "Which of those was even _remotely_ big?"

Sue opened her mouth to speak, but didn't say anything, just letting her lips press together in irritation. She worked her jaw and threw the brush onto the bed. " _Fine_. I'll just _go_ then!"

"Good," Rachel said, pushing her hand through her still matted hair, looking pointedly away. Sue glared at Rachel, and made as if to say something, before she turned and her heel and slammed the door.

Rachel took deep breaths as she heard her sister stomp down the hallway into her room, the door sounding shut throughout the house.

She pressed her lips together, forcing a scream to sound strangled as she fell onto her bed. Her date was coming to pick her up in an hour, and she and Sue were supposed to be bonding over it. I mean, sure, Rachel was sure that there was _some_ resentment, her being 14 and already nearly DTRing with a boy, and Sue being 16 and never even having _kissed_ one, but...

As soon as the thought manifested, Rachel felt guilty. But she couldn't go and see Sue now. It didn't matter how trivial the argument seemed. Sue would find something else to fling Rachel's way. Her grades or their parent's divorce, or how much more their mother liked Rachel over her.

Rachel groaned and reached for her headphones, hoping that pounding some top 20's would settle her, or at least put her into a better mood for when Matt arrived.

And so it was, that when a screech and a flash of wings reverberated against her window, she didn't hear it, just sensed it.

And because from however young, we're taught to _ignore_ that slither down your spine that says, _there's something behind you_ , when Rachel realised what was going on, it was already too late.

* * *

Deciding to lay low had been Dean's idea. No more hunts for a while. No more ghosts or rugaru's or goddamned _pagan gods_. No more people needing saving, no more putting their lives on the line.

At least, not for now.

Sam had wanted to see Cas, but the angel was busy, up in heaven. He'd only come down long enough to tell them that he was Caretaker, that he was in charge of all the comings and goings, and that if they needed someone, it was better that they asked Hannah before him. Because from her, they might actually get a response.

"Hey, you right?" Dean asked, barely even registering that he'd asked the same question a thousand times over the past four days. Ever since Sam's resurrection, Dean had been acting like this. Sam couldn't say he blamed him, couldn't hate the eyes that watched his every step, but he _could_ feel disgruntled when Dean came out with chicken soup and a thermometer.

Gladly, he'd only done that once.

Sam looked up from where he was, sitting on the table in the library and quickly clicking over his page to something non-hunting related. His emails had gotten pretty backed up while he'd been...otherwise occupied, and it was as good a cover as any.

"Fine," Sam said easily. "Seriously man, I'm totally fine."

Dean gave the computer a suspicious look. "You weren't researching any jobs, were you?"

"Uh, no," Sam lied easily. "Just, you know, checkin' my email."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You're an honest to god Fletcher Reed, you know that?"

Sam sighed and leant back, clicking open to the new article he'd been reading. "Sorry. I just...I honestly feel _fine_ , Dean. I feel like we should be _out_ there, you know, killing evil."

"No," Dean said defiantly. "You want lunch?"

" _Yes_ ," Sam insisted, frowning. Then he let his face drop and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, we just need to check it out. I'm not saying we take it, I'm just saying we get out of here. Honestly, I'm gonna have to go all Shawshank on your ass if I have to stay in here for another week."

Dean managed a smile at the 'Shawshank', but he looked less than convinced. "Call Tracy. Or Carlos. This isn't our call, man. We're out of the frying pan now."

"We can see if it's real, and _then_ call them," Sam suggested. He knew if they just _got_ there, and Dean saw that he was actually fine, then maybe he'd be able to convince him. Because Sam was going stir crazy in the bunker. All the hidden rooms and passages had been mostly found, and all the ones that were left were boring. (Probably). Sam just wanted a reason to stretch his legs, to talk to people who weren't watching him like every breath was going to be his last.

Dean watched him for a while. Then he broke. "You're _sure_?"

"Positive," Sam affirmed. Fingers rubbing against each other as his hand hovered over the keyboard.

Dean managed to smile again. "Well, it's either that or naming the bunker 'Stalag Luft', right?"

Sam grinned. "Right. We even have Dorothy's motorbike in the garage."

"So what's happened?" Dean asked, leaning over Sam's shoulder to see the screen.

Sam typed quickly on the computer and the articles popped up, springing all over the computer. "Five girls in three days, all across the south of South Dakota, throats torn, inside locked rooms. The whole MO."

"Weird," Dean murmured. "Anything in common?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. Didn't even know each other."

"How far apart were they?"

"Far apart enough that it couldn't have been a spirit," Sam sighed, rolling onto another article, bringing up the story of 'Rachel Jenkins', the young girls face smiling in the corner, next to it the tear stained face of her family.

"Wait," Dean frowned. "Is that Rachel's family?"

"Seems to be, yeah," Sam frowned, and then looked up at Dean. "Why?"

"They've got a daughter," he said, pointing at the older sister, a pale, distant girl labelled 'Susan Jenkins' by the bottom of the picture. "I mean, we gotta wonder why her sister was taken, and not her."

Sam let the revelation sink in. Then he looked up at Dean, who was still leaning over him, his chest brushing the back of Sam's shoulder as he bent to see the laptop more easily. Sam smiled. "Interested?"

Dean looked a little taken aback, before allowing a sheepish grin to come over his features. "Oh yeah. Haven't had a full blown murder-mystery in ages."

"Let's suit up," Sam said, jumping up and slamming the laptop closed. "You good?"

"Sure," Dean said, standing with him. Sam smiled when he saw the glint of life jump into Dean's eye. "Animal Control, or FBI?"

"Feds," Sam answered easily.

"Your hair's too long to be a Fed."

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes. "You wish."

"Honestly, Sam, just a little off the sides..."

" _No_."

"Alright, alright. Don't know why you think you're so damn allergic to haircuts, though. Few more years and you'll be a dead ringer for Cousin Itt."

Sam tried not to react to obviously to how casually Dean had said 'Few more years' but couldn't help the grin of excitement.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing," Sam said hastily. "Just, if I'm cousin Itt, you're Wednesday Addams."

Dean frowned and opened his mouth to retort, before considering it and slowing down. "I can deal with that."

Sam just laughed. "Get your suit on, Wednesday."

"On it, Juror number 8."

* * *

The house where the Jenkins's lived was pretty typical of any white family with the last name 'Jenkins'. The white picket fences and clean, grey and beige weatherboards covering a large family home. If the weather had been better, Dean could have taken a photo and sent it in to advertise lawns, or fences, or doorhandles, or whatever the hell it was the people advertised these days.

"Dog?" Dean looked over glaringly at the bunch of toys on the veranda as he and Sam stood by the doorway.

Sam was a little more animated (that is to say, nearly jumped out of his skin in excitement) and turned to where Dean was looking. "Dog? Where?"

Dean laughed. "Seriously, dude?"

Sam looked down, but he smiled. "C'mon, Dean. _Dogs_."

"They shed all over my car, and bark," Dean stated, flat out. "And bite. All the time."

Sam was exasperated, like he was whenever Dean tugged him into the conversation. "Only _some_ ―"

"Hello?" A voice from the doorway asked, and the two turned in synch to the sound. Sam's eyes went from amused and irritated to soft and sincere, and Dean straightened his back.

"Good morning, Ma'am," Dean greeted to the middle aged woman standing in the doorway, who he recognised as Rachel's mother from the picture. "I understand that this is a hard time, but we need to speak to you about your daughter's death."

The woman swallowed, holding her hand close to her throat, a knitted scarf bunched around her hand. "I don't―"

"We understand that you've been through this," Sam assured her softly. "We understand you just want to move on. But we can help. We just want to let Rachel rest in peace."

The woman took in Sam with a new sort of appreciation. She coughed when she realised that she'd been staring at Sam for too long of a time, and step back to let them entrance into the house.

Dean kept his grin to himself, about how Sam only seemed attractive to women a decade older than him, and followed the grieving mother and his brother into the living room.

"Now," Sam said, settling down on the couch, Dean seating himself next to him. Perhaps a little closer than professional, but since Sam had come back, his protective instincts had been kicked into overdrive. All he wanted was for Sam to _live through this_. Get to a ripe old age, finally grow old enough to catch the eye of a woman his age. Dean looked across at the woman and smiled as Sam spoke. "Who was the last person to see Rachel?"

"Susan," Rachel's mother said, answering immediately.

The brothers exchanged a glance. "Uh, may we speak with her?"

"You can try," she said, barking a humourless laugh. "She shut herself in her room after our press interview."

Dean thought that it was fair enough, the loss of a sibling was...tough, to say in the least. But the mother looked bitter. He supposed he couldn't blame her either. She'd lost a child, and now her other one was on the verge of being lost as well.

If no one saw you, spoke with you, loved you...did you exist at all?

"Do you..." Sam looked at him and gestured to Mrs. Jenkins and then to the stairs.

Dean stood. "I'll talk to Suzy. You just keep answering those questions ma'am, and we'll be out of your hair in not time."

"She's up the top and to the left," Mrs. Jenkin's said. "First door on the right."

Dean forgot her instructions as soon as he walked towards the staircase, but figured he'd be able to figure it out eventually. He shouldn't have worried, because as soon as he was up the stairs, he saw the girl sitting by the railing, back against the wall, eyes closed, listening intently.

"You must be Susan," Dean greeted. "I'm Dean."

Susan took her time opening her eyes. She shifted her head and watched him carefully. "I know."

Dean's expression hardened slightly, eyebrows shifting down. "Just being polite, you know how it is. I say hi, you say hi, we sit down. I ask questions, you answer questions."

Susan watched him for a long time, before slowly standing up, so that she leant on the wall facing him. "You have any siblings?" Dean brought his eyebrows together, but the girl kept on. "Any little siblings?"

Dean paused and melded his features into nonchalance. "A brother."

She watched him, hard. "You ever fight with him?"

"All the time," Dean assured her. He didn't want to ask where she was heading, disrupting her chain of thought, but perhaps her unloading would give him some insight into why her sister was chosen rather than her.

Susan nodded. She balled her hands into fists and looked determinedly close to tears. "And it's always about such _stupid_ things, like, like things that didn't even _matter_. Not in the end."

"Right," Dean agreed. _Not exactly_. But most people didn't have fights at an apocalyptic scale, and even then, arguing and fighting came nowhere near as helpful as fleshing it out and talking about it did. Not that Dean would ever admit that.

Susan closed her arms around herself and looked down. "I was so... _stupid_. We were fighting about the _stupidest_ thing and..." she looked dangerously close to falling apart now, and Dean had half a mind to call Sam to help him. "And I _want her back_."

"Your mom says you were the last person who spoke with her," Dean said. "Was there anything off about her? Anything unusual?"

Sue shook her head. "Nothing. She was normal. Happy and normal. She'd gotten asked out on a date, you know. Matt was gonna take her to a movie."

Dean was silent in response, wanting to comfort her, but not knowing how.

"Mom's mad at me," she continued, venting. "She hates me for disappearing, but..." Dean didn't need her to fill in the gaps. He got it. She wanted to be alone, she wanted to deal with her thoughts alone.

Dean watched her carefully. "You take care of yourself, but you take care of your mom, too, ok?" He looked at her more intently as she ducked away. "You aren't doing yourselves any favours, locking yourself away from the world."

"This is _my_ ―"

"Why?" Dean interrupted her before she could claim that she'd been the cause of her sister's death. "What did you _do_ , exactly, to make it _your_ fault?"

Susan opened her mouth to speak, and slammed it angrily, tight, when she had nothing to say.

"That's what I thought," Dean said, almost cool. "Now. What were you doing before Rachel died?"

* * *

"And she was just brushing her hair, man," Dean shook his head, eyes not wavering from the road as he and Sam drove back to the bunker. "Nice and normal."

"By normal, you mean, not summoning Satan?" Sam guessed.

Dean titled his head. "More or less, yeah. But nothing adds up. What's the connection?"

Sam shrugged. "Mrs. Jenkins said that Sue was a bit of a handful. Maybe she was lying."

"Lie, maybe, but why _hair_ brushing?"

Sam shrugged. "Easy lie to tell as―"

He paused and frowned. At his silence, Dean glanced over. "What?"

"Watch the road."

Dean sighed and fixed his sight out of the windscreen. "Seriously, Sammy. What?"

"Say that again."

Dean frowned in confusion. "Uh, Seriously―"

"Before that," Sam urged, holding a hand up as he wracked his brain, trying to track down the train of thought eluding him. The one that had held so much promise.

"Ok, the thing about brushing hair or―"

" _Hair_ ," Sam said, as it dawned on him. "All the girls, Caucasian, or at least passing for, with red or brown hair. Right?"

"All of them have either red or brown hair?" Dean asked, dubious. " _That_ is what we're building our case off?"

"Better than nothing," Sam said, frowning. "If we follow this up, maybe we can―"

"Sam, we're..." Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "We're laying _low,_ remember? This is not our thing. I got Carlos to send me Tracy Bell's number. Or we could call Jody."

Sam stiffened his jaw, and didn't say anything.

Dean sighed and pressed his foot down, hard, on the accelerator, pressing the impala up a particularly steep hill, soot coloured tire marks stretching out behind them as they gunned it for the bunker, for warmth and safety and home.

If Dean was honest, which, in his profession, where lies came with the fake badge and credit cards, wasn't all that often, he'd say he was scared. Dean didn't have that positive of a relationship with the truth in the first place, but add it with admitting a failure of his strength and well...yeah. Nonexistent.

Because what if he did start fighting again? How would Missouri's spell last with that? Would it wear away faster if he brought back those primal instincts? The ones that had kept him alive in purgatory, the ones that _terrified_ him?

So he'd put up the screen. The failsafe. And part of the truth. Sam had _died._ He'd been _dead_. And Dean didn't want to deal with that, didn't want to revisit that. Not any time soon. Sam needed his strength back, needed to jump back in when _both_ of them were sure. But it wasn't the entire truth.

Dean didn't acknowledge any of this as he drove him and his brother through the country to their underground home. Their very own place.

He didn't really acknowledge _anything_.

* * *

Sam had been sitting in the library when it happened. The computer that he wasn't supposed to be on was open on websites he'd been told to avoid, and his mind whirred around the case that Dean was on his way to passing on.

Could he be right? Other than the fact that all the victims were girls, this seemed to be the only connection. Not a very strong one, but perhaps enough to propel him to realise something. Red and brown, red and brown.

The answer knocked him out of his chair, literally.

Apparently, to get to Oz, you needed a magic key and a doorway. To get back, all you needed was a searing, enduring flash and a library table.

The air across the table started to pulsate and surge, white, bright light sizzled around in a mutating cloud of searing heat.

Sam jerked back and fell hard backwards, chair hitting the ground in a crack. He scrambled back, ignoring the pang of pain up his spine and didn't look away from the light, pulling out his gun, holding it, pointed squarely at the middle of the frothing thing.

"Sam!" Dean ran into the room, and Sam met his eyes in disbelief, nodding as Dean pulled out his own gun, copying Sam's pose, finger pressed readily on the trigger.

"I thought this place was supposed to be warded against everything!" Sam managed to make his voice louder that the crackle and snap of the light in front of them.

"It is!" Sam heard Dean bellow back, his brothers eyes still trained on the clouds movements.

And then, almost all at once, it stopped. And two girls fell out.

Dean jerked forward, gun trained squarely on the two, with narrowed eyes and quick steps. Sam followed his lead, finger nearing the trigger, eyes darting from girl to girl, until―

" _Charlie_?" Dean let the gun fall, so that it grew lax in his hands and pointed to the floor. Sam went another step further, tucking his pistol back into the back of his pants.

Sam moved forward as Dean did. "Wait, Dorothy?"

"Hey, bitches," Charlie made out, tiredly, but grinning, propping herself up on the table. Next to her, Dorothy was regaining her bearings, looking around the room, usually impeccable hair in disarray. "You ever ridden a tornado before?"

* * *

"I just...it was _wow_ ," Charlie gushed, sighing and curling into her hot chocolate. Sam shook his head, grinning. Dean had insisted that they wrap a blanket around their shoulders and keep their heat up. Dorothy had taken to it surly, but Charlie had relished, cupping the molten chocolate and milk with a dreamy sort of expression. "I mean, you think, Quest! Hooray! But...no way, man. This was... _beyond_ awesome."

"As you can see, she was awfully enthusiastic," Dorothy remarked dryly, but Sam saw the fondness in her eyes as she took in her friend. "The people of the Emerald City didn't know what to do with themselves."

"The Munchkin's, too," Charlie added, taking a sip of her drink.

Dean smiled, and raised his eyebrows. He seemed in a constant state of bemusement around Charlie, but Sam wasn't swayed from the knowledge of how fond Dean was of the girl. She was like his sister, she was like _Sam's_ sister. And extending their little family, after....well, everything, didn't seem like such a bad thing.

"So, then, why'd you leave?" Sam asked, ladling himself out some of the hot chocolate from the massive pot in the kitchen and into another mug.

Charlie winced. "Ah, yeah. So, the Wicked Witch of the West seemed to have a pretty strong fall back plan. And like, the flying monkeys and stuff were a pain."

"More than a pain," Dorothy supplied seriously. "They were massing forces against the two of us, so we lay low for a while. Then it just...stopped. Good for a while, worrying after that."

"You think they've come to earth?" Sam asked, frowning, thinking back to all he knew about them. Then he looked up and saw Charlie and Dorothy. He tilted his head and frowned.

"Yeah," Charlie said, mostly oblivious to Sam's scrutiny. "We think they think we have. And it's either here or another fairy realm, and, well..." she looked sheepish. "Those are _really_ hard to get access to."

"For us and the monkeys," Dorothy expanded. She didn't even seem to bat an eye as she filled in the gaping holes Charlie left in her explanation. Then again, they'd been together for about a year. When you're with someone for that long, you grow and they grow, so that you sort of just slot together. "But there are numerous ways to get to earth, and if you have the means..."

Dean was serious now, his arms crossed against his chest. "And what'll they do? If they get here?"

"They're looking for us," Dorothy said, just as Charlie made out "Carnage." between sips of hot chocolate. Dorothy looked at Charlie and rolled her eyes.

That was the thing that propelled Sam to make the connection. He turned to Dean, already preparing the list of defences he'd put together. "Dean, the girls, red heads and brunettes...you don't think it's a coincidence?"

"Wait, what's happening?" Charlie asked, looking quickly between Sam and then Dean, who was watching Sam, a sort of understanding stealing over his features.

Dorothy was more to the point. "Have you seen the monkeys?"

"Not exactly," Sam answered her without looking away from Dean's troubled face. "But there've been a series of supernatural murders, kudos to some sort of animal. Throat ripped, closed windows and doors, all separate girls along the southern border of South Dakota. You know of any portals to Oz down there?"

Dorothy shook her head slowly. "The only portal to Oz is with the key. But they might have accidently stumbled upon a way to get there."

"Hot air balloon?" Dean joked.

"Maybe," Dorothy said, misreading the tone of his question, and Charlie's face was pinched with worry. "But it doesn't matter. If it _is_ Flying Monkeys, then we need to stop them. They're lethal and remorseless. They'll kill anything in their path."

"What do we do?" Sam asked, placing his hot chocolate down on the bench and moving nearer to where Dorothy and Charlie were sitting.

"We could...let them know that we were here and trap them back into Oz?" Charlie suggested, looking to Dorothy for the other Hunter's approval.

Dorothy looked unconvinced, but she nodded slowly. "It'd take a bit of manoeuvring, but I think we could do it."

"What would you need?" Sam asked.

"Summoning ritual," Charlie answered, in the space of Dorothy. She frowned a little and looked over to her friend. "Right?"

"Right," Dorothy affirmed.

* * *

Down in the archives, Charlie seemed more at home, more relaxed, than she'd been upstairs. She hummed under her breath, running her finger along the spines of books and files, and her cheeriness was almost unnerving.

"You're sure that you're ok, Charlie?" Dean pressed, standing beside her, hand left forgotten, resting on a large book written in Latin.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine," Charlie smiled. "I mean, Hell, Oz was intense, man. But _awesome_ as well. Dorothy..." she trailed off and sighed happily.

"You got a bit of a crush?" Dean guessed. "I don't blame you."

"Don't be a moron, Buzz," Charlie chastised, but she was blushing. She looked a little more happy though, as she went about her business, a small smile her constant friend along the curves of her lips. Dean smiled to himself and went on looking alongside her, tracing his fingers along the spines of the books.

"Oh, by the way," Charlie said, interrupting the quiet abruptly. "I promised Dorothy that we'd watch the movie when we got back. She didn't seem all that for it, but, you know..." she shook her head as if Dorothy was being entirely unreasonable. "It's a _movie_ about her. Like, a _movie_."

"It'd probably freak her out," Dean said. "I mean, was colour TV even invented when she disappeared?"

"No..." Charlie pondered. "So maybe we could drop her in slowly? Get her used to the whole shindig before the yellow bricks."

"Like...Godzilla?"

Charlie paused again and looked up at him, her face purposefully blank. "The remake or the original?"

Dean was offended. "The _remake,_ because I just _love_ destroying pop culture. No, obviously the original."

Charlie breathed out a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I thought I was going to have to unfriend you."

"Unfriend?"

"Facebook lingo," Charlie informed him, looking up at him, with a wry smile on her face. "It's weird how like, little you know of some things, and then how much you know of others."

"I'm busy. Saving the world and stuff."

Charlie arched an eyebrow. "I love you."

Dean answered automatically. "I know."

Charlie smiled, satisfied, and Dean frowned.

"Who would I, uh, friend?" ― Charlie nodded that he was using the correct terminology― "on facebook anyway?" Dean asked. "Other than you, and Sam if I could press him into getting it. All the people we know are either angels, demons, or dead."

"Fair enough," Charlie said. "But then you wouldn't have gotten so confused about the 'unfriend' bizzo."

"Can't say I'm really missing out on much."

"Yeah," Charlie agreed. "Gotta say, at least you skipped out on your meme phase."

Dean frowned. "What's a 'meem'?"

Charlie shook her head. "Oh, no. You don't wanna know."

"Right," Dean said slowly. "Where's Sam and Dorothy?"

"Probably talking about hair," Charlie mused. "They both have excellent skill man ship."

"Do _not_ tell Sam that," Dean warned. "I've been trying to get him to cut his hair for _years_. Every time someone compliments him, it sets me back a couple of months."

Charlie laughed. "When was the last time Sam got his hair cut?"

Dean shook his head, smiling, turning back to the books and the rest of the archive half-heartedly. "Who knows? Rapunzel mightn't have had one since he left Stanford."

"Hello," Charlie sang under her breath.

Dean looked over quizzically. "Sorry?"

Charlie blushed, a deep red across her cheeks that melted into the colour of her hair. "I just...Stanford Era Reference?"

Dean was totally out of his depth now. Stanford Era? Like, the time Sam was in Stanford? And then...oh no. Oh God, no. He groaned. "You're not talking about those books, are you?"

Charlie, if possible, turned even redder. "No! Well, _yes_ , but―"

"Charlie, seriously? I thought you were going to try and get rid of them."

"Hey, I never said that," Charlie held up her hands. "The whole Stanford Era thing is just this... _thing_...in the fandom―"

"What the hell is a 'fandom'?"

"Because you two _never_ talk about it and whenever you do it's always really angsty or anything, so whenever you two _do_ say something about Stanford or Jess in passing it's a really big deal and everyone loves it and sees it as integral to character development," Charlie spilled all at once.

Dean was taken aback. "Wait, seriously?"

Charlie nodded, resolute in that she would _not_ blush anymore.

Dean shook his head, turning back to the spines with a little more concentration than before. "People are weird."

Charlie was silent for a bit, before turning back to her books. They moved on, but Dean could feel her tensing. Then she slammed her hand down on them and turned to Dean again. "Dean―"

"Seriously, however much fun it is to talk to you, we do need to do th―"

" _Dean_ ," Charlie interrupted tersely. When it seemed like he was giving his full attention, she took a deep breath. "Ok." She studied his face for a moment, hands tight, stance resolute. "How did you bring me back from the dead?"

Dean turned slowly away from the books and looked at his friend. "I, uh―"

"And _don't_ give me any crap about, like, I don't know, the Wicked Witch's power not killing me, because I talked to Dorothy and―"

"I'll tell you, Charlie," Dean said, and he winced as she drew back from the hoarseness of his tone.

"It had something to do with Sam, didn't it?" Charlie guessed. "You said that she got him as well. But he didn't die."

"Yeah, it has something to do with Sam," Dean sighed. He ran his hand over his mouth and relayed an abridged version of the story. Leaving out Kevin's death and the mark of Cain. And barely going into detail about Abaddon and Metatron.

" _Dude_ ," Charlie said, open mouthed. "You let an _angel_ possess him? _So_ uncool."

"I wasn't going to let him―"

"Die, yeah, yeah, I get it," Charlie silenced him with a wave of her hand. "But... _jeez_. No wonder he was pissed at you. And...that angel, he brought me back?"

"Yes," Dean said shortly, turning back to the same book he'd looked over three times, reading over the name on the spine without retaining any of the words. He didn't want to go over this again, he didn't _want_ to relive the last year. Every year building and building, becoming worse and worse and worse. He didn't want to talk about it with Charlie, because when he thought, when he cast his mind back, _everything_ was lifted in a cloud of dust and mourning. Everything _but_ Charlie. Because she was so friendly or so sweet, or because she smiled more than she frowned and let him get away with his stupid nerd jokes.

She as Charlie, _Charlie_ , and that's who he wanted her to stay.

She seemed to sense that he wouldn't give anymore if she pushed, so she just turned back to the books, shoulders dropping in defeat, eyes closing for the breadth of a second as she gathered her thoughts. Then she opened them, sent herself a severe talking to and fought on.

* * *

"Found anything?" Dorothy asked Sam, as he bent over his laptop and she pooled through the books already up in the library.

Sam shook his head and sighed. "Seems that the only flying monkeys, are, the, you know, monkeys from your Dad's book."

Dorothy scowled and wrenched open another tome. "Swell."

Sam leant away from his laptop and stretched up. "Are we sure that he didn't leave any more clues in the books?"

Dorothy shook her head. "I've read them, and honestly, the rest really _are_ the ravings of a sad old man. Besides, Pops was good, but he wasn't _that_ good. I'm not sure how you'd go about hiding the recipe for a spell in a children's book, but it has to be nigh on impossible."

"Hey, Pencil necks," Charlie announced her and Dean into the library cheerily, taking the seat next to Dorothy just as Dean took the vacant one next to Sam.

"I honestly don't think that there are _any_ spells to summon them," Sam sighed, slamming his laptop shut.

"How do we lure them here, then?" Dorothy asked. "I mean, if we could somehow get them to _see_ us―"

"We could post pictures of ourselves online?" Charlie suggested suddenly.

"I know Dean is kind of an exception to the rule, but do you think the monkeys would be able to use the internet?"

Dean drew back and looked at Sam. "Watch it, Sasquatch."

"We just need _one_ to see, and it'll lead all the others," Dorothy sighed, rubbing a hand across her face. "They're stupid, and they'll attack anything with a heartbeat, but when they see us, they'll know it's us."

"Could they be killing those girls to send a message?" Sam asked, frowning and thinking back to the case of Susan and Rachel, and then all the other girls who'd met their ends.

Dorothy shrugged. "Doesn't matter. We need to get them here regardless. If they spend too long on earth, they might not want to leave."

Dean sighed. "Great."

"Ok, so the monkeys assumed you ran away to earth, followed you here, and now we have no way of them actually finding where you are," Sam summarised, leaning forward onto his elbows on the table, running his fingers over the back of his head. "Amazing."

"Well, I'm beat," Dean announced, standing up. Sam checked his watch and nearly fell out of his chair in a haste to get to his feet. It was nearly midnight.

"Damn bunker," Charlie complained, sighing when she saw her own watch. "How are we supposed to know what time it is?"

"You have a watch," Dorothy pointed out.

"Not helping, Dee-Dee."

"Dee-Dee?" Sam asked, grinning.

Dorothy shot him her best death glare.

"And on that note, let's call it a night," Charlie suggested, standing up as well. "I can have the room I was supposed to have, right fella's?"

"Sure," Sam agreed. "And Dorothy, you're welcome to take any room that you want."

Dorothy nodded her thanks. "I think I'll stay up a bit longer, see if there's anything I missed out on."

* * *

The next morning saw Dean brewing a jug of coffee, and Sam sitting heavily on the breakfast bar in the kitchen, slowly swirling his breakfast cereal into crumbs in his milk.

"Taste better that way, or something?" Charlie asked, bouncing into the kitchen like she hadn't just suffered through three hours of sleep.

When Sam looked up in confusion she gestured to the cereal. "You know...fruit loops easier to down in liquid form?"

Sam barked a laugh. "No, God. I just got distracted." He frowned at the mess in front of him. "Ugh. Gross."

Charlie laughed and swung into the chair next to him. "Either of you broads seen Dorothy anywhere? I couldn't find any room that looked like anyone had spent the night in it."

"No idea," Dean said, pouring him and Sam a cup of coffee and giving his brother a look as he took Sam's ruined breakfast from him, tipping the milk down the drain and placing the bowl beside the sink.

"Hey!" Sam said indignantly. "I was eating―"

" _Drinking_ ," Dean corrected. "You eat solids, Sam. That was disgusting."

"Maybe to you."

"No, but guys―"

Dean proffered the steaming jug of coffee, pulling out another mug. "Coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks," Charlie agreed, a little distractedly. "But guys, where is she?"

"Here," Dorothy yawned in answer, moving into the room sluggishly, her hair, which had been fixed into its meticulous neatness the day before was rough and spread across her forehead. "Sorry. I stayed up looking. Must have fallen asleep on my books."

"Your neck ok?" Sam asked, in a voice that said he could relate.

"Fine," Dorothy said, nevertheless rubbing her hand across the muscles beneath her hair.

"So, any of you Einstein's think of any way to fix this sitch?" Charlie asked, cupping her hands around the coffee mug to get her hands to warm up, the ceaseless cold of the bunker getting into the tips of her fingers.

"I might have an idea," Dorothy said. "Where was the last murder?"

"Lake Andes, South Dakota," Sam recited. "The Jenkins. Why?"

"Well, there are probably some still hanging around," Dorothy said. "If we went, and then left, perhaps we could lead them back to the bunker, and get them back to Oz like that."

"Which we still don't know how to do, by the way," Dean said.

"We can cast a befuddlement spell on them as they arrive in the bunker," Dorothy said, as if it were obvious. "You do have a lab, don't you?"

"Uh, no?" Sam asked, looking to Dean for confirmation, who nodded.

Dorothy frowned. " _Why_? How are you supposed to make spells?"

"We have some of the ingredients stored in the dungeon," Sam managed, but under Dorothy's peeved expression, saw that it wasn't close to what she meant.

"Ace," Dorothy sighed. "Really _keen_ job on that one, fellas."

"I love it when she speaks 30's," Charlie whispered.

"So we split up, then," Dean said, reasonably. "Some of us will get the ingredients for the spell, and then the rest will go to lure the monkeys."

"Well, me and Dorothy have to go to Lake Andes," Charlie said. "We can go by ourselves. You still have my car, right?"

"Probably," Dean shrugged.

Charlie paled.

"He's joking, Charlie," Sam assured her. "We have it and Dorothy's bike."

"So we split up?" Charlie pressed. "Me and Dorothy, and then Holmes and Watson?"

Dorothy brightened. "Sherlock Holmes?"

Charlie looked over to the boys, conspirator to some great unknown. "Dorothy always get excited when she understands something I reference."

"You don't say," Dean looked over at the pleased Hunter, who was stealing sips out of Charlie's cup of coffee.

Sam grinned. "Awesome. Ok, so are we splitting up now, or...?" He let the sentence drag on.

"You ready, Red?" Dorothy asked.

"Sure," Charlie agreed. "We're just going to be hanging around, right? Like, we don't actually need to _do_ anything, do we?"

"Make sure you see them before they see you," Dean said, worriedly.

"Shouldn't be too hard," Dorothy shrugged, standing, her boots hitting the linoleum defiantly. "I've been tracking the suckers my whole life."

"She has," Charlie confirmed, looking over to Dorothy with adoration. "It's amazing."

"Shake a leg, Chuck," Dorothy ordered Charlie, exiting the room. "I'm gonna go freshen up, and then we're outta here."

* * *

Before they left, Dorothy left them with a list of ingredients and a step by step method for creating the spell. She expressed her disappointment, again, with how they didn't have a place to actually put the whole thing together, but Charlie managed to drag her out before she hit repeat number seven.

The Winchester's climbed into the impala after Dorothy and Charlie had driven off, and before he turned the ignition, Dean turned to Sam.

"Charlie...she asked how she got back to life," Dean said, slowly. Not comfortable at _all_ with telling Sam everything. Because the constant _don't, no, protect him,_ was a constant song, around and around in his head. But he _had_ to.

_Secrets ruin relationships!_

"Oh," Sam said. He looked down at his lap. "Huh. What did you say?"

"The truth," Dean managed, turning the key in the ignition, the car jerking to life. He looked over to the list in Sam's hand. "Got any idea where we can get all this?"

"It's not actually that complicated," Sam said. And almost just like that, it was forgotten. How deadly close they'd gotten to talking about the last year. Sam and Dean both knew that they'd have to approach it at some point but now...now was a time for just _being_. Being and forgetting.

Sam had no idea how to express how thankful he was that Dean was being so blatantly open, and Dean didn't know how to express that he found it so _difficult,_ but wished that he didn't.

The impala rumbled to life and they drove along the driveway and into the air.

"First stop?"

Sam shook his head, bemused. "The supermarket."

"Seriously?"

"Oil, salt, matches," Sam listed. "Yeah, seriously."

* * *

"Ok, this is terrifying," Charlie said as they drove slowly through the town where the most recent victim had died.

"Yeah," Dorothy agreed, but for an entirely different reason. She was looking into a computer store, the blood drained from her face. "What the Hell is all of that?"

"That's, uh, Apple."

" _That's_ what apples are, these days?" Dorothy demanded, flabbergasted.

"No, it's, it's like a brand," Charlie struggled to explain. "You know, Steve Jobs...ah, what am I kidding. You don't know."

"I would have thought that the future was going to be more interesting," Dorothy admitted. "I thought you'd at least have flying cars. All you do have is very advanced apples."

Charlie was caught in wordless incredulity. Then she laughed. "Well, you're not wrong."

Dorothy sighed. "I don't think I'm ever going to catch up."

"Don't worry," Charlie shrugged, and she knew that she would probably be looking way more frightened and nervous than the nonchalance she was aiming for. "I'll learn it for you."

Dorothy smiled at her friend and mused her hair. Charlie managed a laugh before focusing fully on driving, hoping that the hunter didn't think that her speech was too Sam-and-Frodo.

Charlie suddenly widened her eyes. She'd known that Dorothy would have missed out on a lot. She would have missed out on Star Wars and Star Trek, and all the other stars that had come and gone between her disappearance and reappearance. But it had never fully dawned on Charlie, that her friend would have lived in a time before Tolkien.

"Merry or Pippin?"

"Is that some sort of new slang?" Dorothy asked immediately, blinking.

Charlie blew out a breath of air, shaking her head in disbelief. " _Man_ , have I got to introduce you to some real literature."

* * *

"Uh, yeah, I think so," Dean told Charlie, who was nattering away in his ear.

Dean turned to Sam, interrupting his brother out of looking through all the ingredients they'd bought. They were on the way home, and Dean hadn't hesitated on answering the phone when Charlie had called, despite the illegality. "Hey, Sam, we have the extended edition of the Lord of the Rings, right?"

"Pretty sure," Sam said, without looking up from inventory, checking twice next to the list to make sure they had everything.

" _What did Sam say_?" Charlie asked, her voice tinny and small from the phone next to his hear.

"He said yeah," Dean supplied. "Why?"

" _Dorothy's never read, nor seen Middle Earth, like, ever._ "

"She was alive in the 30's, wasn't she?" Dean said, driving the car around near the back of the bunker, leading it down into the driveway leading to the Garage.

" _That's not the point. I told you, I was pretty much raised on Tolkien. I owe her as a friend and her guide to the 21st century._ "

"Her guide to the 21st century," Dean echoed, and Sam looked over at that, eyebrows raised. "Alright, Charlie. We're nearly back. Can you tell Dorothy we have everything and we'll be starting the spell as soon as we can?"

" _On it_ ," she promised, and the phone clicked off.

Dean tucked the phone into the pocket at the front of his jeans. "Guide to the 21st century," he repeated, shaking his head, smiling fondly. "That girl."

Sam agreed with a low laugh. "Yeah. Ok, you ready?"

The car pulled up, and Dean jerked the key out, effectively shutting it all down. He pulled the key out and smiled at his brother. "'Course."

* * *

Dorothy jerked in surprise when they passed  a woman wearing a pair of high waisted shorts. They weren't that revealing by most people's standards, but Charlie knew her friend was an outlier in that equation.

"Hey, hey, chill," Charlie said, bracing her hand on Dorothy's arm. "It's all good. Just a bit of skin, never hurt anybody."

Dorothy shook her head. "Sorry, it's just all so, _glaring._ You know?"

"Yeah, sure," Charlie said, nodding and smiling at the couple nearby giving them odd looks.

Charlie couldn't even think of anything to tell them if they came over to ask why her friend was acting so weird. In her case, she felt like intoxication was the way to go.

Intoxication was always the way to go. Ha. She should get that made into a T-Shirt.

"Seen anything?" Charlie asked, looking around the street.

Dorothy seemed a little overwhelmed, but she was certain when she shook her head. "Nothing, yet. But I don't think they'd come this close to the centre of town."

"If they can move through doors and windows," Charlie said. "Where would they stay?"

"Somewhere high up," Dorothy said, looking around in their immediate area for anywhere on a pedestal.  "Like the castle."

"I saw a church on the map of town," Charlie suggested. "It had a bell tower. They might be nesting up there?"

Dorothy smiled and clapped her hands together, in that totally adorable 30's way of hers. "Lead the way!"

* * *

"That was _way_ too close," Charlie spieled as she slammed her foot on the accelerator, tearing down the street out of town. "Way, way, way, _way_ too close."

"I get it, Charlie," Dorothy silenced through clenched teeth. She was looking out the back window with iron resolve, all her good humour lost as she watched the empty sky behind them.

"There weren't supposed to be _so many_!" Charlie stammered. At least she wasn't screaming. A year ago and she would have been. Another three and she probably would have been wetting her pants.

"I know," Dorothy said, her voice still irritatingly steady and aloof.

"Well, they've definitely seen us," Charlie said, her grip on the steering wheel tightening. She held her jaw tightly. " _Definitely_."

"Yes, Charlie, thank you," Dorothy said, in an attempt to placate her friend with tough love. Too bad the act didn't work on Charlie, or she'd have had a permanent gag installed while she was in Oz. She knew Dorothy well enough to know what that meant. She was worried, _scared,_ even.

"Sam was right," Charlie breathed. "They were trying to drag us out."

"Well, we didn't have any other choice," Dorothy replied tersely. She turned to Charlie. "Have you called them?"

"About what?" Charlie was verging on hysterical. She could feel angry, worried tears threaten at the corners of her eyes. _No_. She would _not_ cry. She was a cold ass, badass, _hot_ ass warrior queen, she was―

"The spell!"

Charlie jerked in recollection and shoved her phone out. "You call them. Quickly. Please."

Dorothy looked small as she stared at the phone. "I don't know how."

Charlie trained her car to keep with the sharp turn, wrenching the steering wheel around the bend. "Use your finger and slide the screen."

"It's a―"

" _Try_."

The telltale pop noise forced a sigh of relief from Charlie, and she looked over to see how it was going. "Now, the buttons down the bottom. Press the one that looks like a phone."

A moment of silence. "Got it."

"You see those numbers? Press the five."

Dorothy entered the number in slowly.

"Now the green receiver symbol?"

"I don't know what―"

"The _only green button_ , Dorothy!" Charlie said, her speed and worry was making her snarky. She could see that Dorothy wasn't blaming her, following her instruction diligently and pressing onto the screen.

"Got it," Dorothy said. She turned to Charlie in panic. "Charlie, the screen changed...I didn't―"

"It's ok," Charlie took another calm, deep breath. "Hold it up to your ear―" she couldn't help smile "―no, no. The _other_ way, silly duff."

Dorothy smiled, embarrassed and held the phone the right way up. There was a crack in between one of the rings and Charlie heard the reverberations of a man's voice, the faintest impression of his tone all she got from the driver's seat.

"Sam?" Dorothy asked. "We're coming. Are you done?"

A moment of silence and hurried words. Charlie spared a looked from the road (she really shouldn't have, they were Dean-Driving, which is to say, breaking State Law) and studied Dorothy's face, trying to get a read on what was going on.

"Hurry," Dorothy said. "The spell has to be finished for a while to congeal."

There was more chatter, before the phone call ended. Dorothy blinked in surprise and lay the phone flashing the end call screen on her lap.

"Everything ok?"

Dorothy was relaxed, but bemused. "The future is _weird_."

"C'mon, Marty," Charlie said, and the joke sounded off with her slightly panicky voice. "We've got a plane of existence to save."

* * *

The wheels on Charlie's car skidded on the asphalt as they slammed up to the entrance to the bunker.

"Got the spell?" Dorothy asked, jumping, slightly breathless out of the passenger seat.

Sam held up a bottle of the blue liquid. "Here. We weren't sure what to do after this, though."

"That's ok," Dorothy said, pulling the bottle out of his hands and making off to spread it in a circle around the entrance to the driveway. "I can." She looked up at them all sharply. "Do _not_ cross this line, ok?"

Dean saw as Charlie winced at the bottle and climbed the slight incline to stand beside the brothers. "Don't worry."

"So, you found the monkeys, then?" Sam asked, moving around so that he could see Charlie and Dean, coercing them into a half circle.

Charlie nodded tiredly. "Or, they kinda found us. You were right, by the way, Sam. They are smarter than they look."

Sam frowned in confusion. "Right about what, exactly?"

"It was a trap," Charlie relayed.

"There was always the possibility."

"Not helping, Dean," Charlie frowned.

A faint scraping in the sky turned all three of their heads. At first, Dean had no idea what it was, until he started making out faint shapes, and the scraping turned into a more recognisable flapping.

"Dorothy!" Charlie called, her voice timid.

Dorothy looked up and swore colourfully. Or what Dean assumed was colourfully, considering he didn't understand half the words she used.

"Are you nearly done?" Sam asked, his voice was tight, but mostly calm. Dean itched to put his hand around his gun, but fought it off, staring with Sam and Charlie towards the massive, ever growing cloud of flying monkeys.

"Never thought I'd see the day," Dean said, voice tight.

"Well, I can't _see_ anything," Sam said, frowning, and Dean realised that while he'd been looking in the same direction as them, it'd been purely sound orientated. "What the hell's going on?"

"Dean, have you been to a fairy dimension?" Dorothy asked, curious, running over, the bottle of spell empty.

" _Guys_."

"Uh, yeah. A few years ago." Dean let his expression fall neutral. It wasn't exactly the best experience of his life, to say in the least.

"Seriously, guys―"

"Well, that'd explain it," Sam nodded.

" _Guys_!"  

Dorothy, Dean and Sam turned to where Charlie was avidly trying to get their attention. "Um, not to be the Nancy of the group, but can we hurry this up? Or have this conversation some other time?"

"Right," Dorothy said, moving to one of the driveway doors just as Dean did. He looked across at her, waiting for her signal. She gave it with a nod and they heaved the doors open.

Dorothy and Charlie met in the middle and Sam took over Dorothy's place as sentry. The brothers watched as the girls prepared themselves.

Dorothy's eyes were hard. "You have the key?"

Sam pulled it out of his pocket, showing it and then encasing it in the hand not holding the door.

"Dorothy," Charlie said, watching the black cloud. "That's close enough."

"Now, then," Dorothy said, and Sam and Dean slammed the doors shut. At the disappearance of the two girls, the monkeys grew more agitated, moved faster.

"You got it, Sammy?" Dean asked, standing guard and watching the now distinguishable monsters as Sam slotted the key in.

Sam wrenched the key in the lock, and kept his hand on it, ready to turn. The monkeys were so near now, so _deathly_ close. The first one would be hitting Dorothy's spell any moment, any second.

"Sam! Now!"

Sam turned the key and with a grunt and all their strength, the two brothers broke open the door. With a howl of wind and wings, the monkeys flew through to Oz, it's golden, ethereal light spilling through and out, like honey, like a soft embrace, the kind of light that put the earth's sun and stars to shame.

Dean couldn't see Sam, but he realised that his brother would be able to see him. So he looked across the stream of flying apes and gave his brother that, his reassurance, a smile, warm eyes.

The monsters barraged past, the befuddlement spell did nothing to slow down their speed. They were all red eyes and sharp, jagged, severe fur. All claws and blades for wings, all howling and flapping and _screaming._

That's what it was, a long drawn out cry emptying itself into Oz.

The last of the pack of the monkeys came through and without a second thought, Sam and Dean pushed the doors shut. Dean breathed heavily against it, the lack of the strength he'd grown so used to making itself felt as his arms strained to get the doors closed before the monkeys could realise what had gone wrong.

The doors slammed shut, a clang heralding the beginning of silence, the absence of the crack and smack of the wings, the howling, the cries.

"You right?" Sam managed, who was breathing hard himself, arms still braced on the door.

"Fine," Dean stated shortly, lungs straining to get air. "That was...really somethin', hey?"

"Really somethin' would be right," Sam said, and Dean smiled when his brother laughed.

"Should we open the door?"

"Probably."

But neither moved, just standing where they were, basking in the quiet, in the aftermath. The sky stretched above them and the earth below them, and there, together, arms nearly brushing as they both turned to lean against the door, backs resting side by side.

"So," Sam started, and Dean heard the smile in his voice. "Which of us is Holmes, and which is Watson?"

"I'm Holmes."

"No way, man. I'm the smart one."

"Sure, but you're also the side-kick."

"Side-kick? I'm gonna kick your ass."

"Whatever, Robin."

" _I_ was always Batman, you were Superman."

"What, and Batman isn't just one of Superman's sidekicks?"

"I'm telling Charlie you said that."

"Don't you dare."

* * *

The popcorn was fresh and buttered, and Sam's room was properly outfitted with blankets and pillows. Sam had the best TV, and the shittiest room, but they'd had to make do. Dean had driven down with Sam to buy snacks, mostly peanut M&M's and three massive packs of microwavable popcorn, while Dorothy and Charlie went about making sure that everything was in optimal marathon position.

Dean juggled the bowl of buttered popcorn and packet of M&M's, while Sam precariously held a beer for each of them.

"Perfect," Charlie sighed, reaching her hand out and grabbing a fistful of popcorn, squishing it all into her mouth at once. She murmured incomprehensibly in delight and fell back, head resting on Dorothy's leg.

The Hunter didn't seem to mind, taking some of the chocolate that Dean offered and waiting, comfortable, on one of the two beds in Sam's room.

"Nothing that can't be cured by a massive bowl of popcorn," Dean admonished proudly.

"That and a Lord of the Rings marathon," Charlie agreed. She sat up and reached for another handful.

Sam handed out the beers and walked forward and inserted the first disk, sitting back next to Dean as the movie started to play. He glanced over at his brother when Dean wasn't watching and smiled, actually _smiled_ , again.

He seemed to have been doing it a lot lately. And not all of it was forced.

"So," Dorothy said, finally curious. She'd taken to everything quite well. She'd understood Charlie when she'd more delicately gone through all the things that made her phone tick, and nodded her understanding when Dean taught her how to use the coffee machine. She drew the line at a search engine, informing Sam that she'd been able to survive without one so far, and that even if she was in this time for good, she'd be able to get by without out 'Goggle' or whatever it was. "What's this film about anyway?"

"It's kind of complicated," Charlie whispered, as Galadriel's voice spilled out of the speakers. "Don't worry, you'll pick it up."

Dean offered Sam some M&M's, flashing a smile as Sam took a healthy handful.

Sam smiled sheepishly and picked at the piled, one by one, making them last. He looked around. Charlie was sitting beside Dorothy, propped up on pillows, head resting on her friends shoulder. Dorothy was enraptured, eyes wide as she took in the screen. Sam wasn't sure how much film had changed since she'd disappeared in the mid 30's, but it probably didn't have thousands of people marching on CGI constructed fields of war.

Then he looked at Dean, and saw that his brother was at peace. His hand still hovered over the mark, but even as he watched, his hands shifted, like he wasn't thinking, like it was starting to... _not matter_. Dean had gone into relatively deep detail when it came to what Missouri had done, but Sam was still light on the particulars. But it didn't matter, not now. Because here they were, sitting side by side.

Here they were, brother and brother. Side by side, smiling and laughing and trusting.

Home and here, and together. And the world was suddenly, finally, looking up.

* * *

"Dean made a Tolkien reference once," Sam said, his voice a little slow with tiredness. The first movie had passed in a blur. Dorothy had cried unashamedly and laughed as well. She seemed to be enjoying herself, and Dean was a little jealous that she was so new to this, and could be so invested in non-reality.

But before that, he had something to take care of. "Yeah, it was really relevant as well."

"What was it?" Charlie asked, a yawn swallowing the very end of her sentence.

"The 'I can carry you' thing," Sam said, detached, eyes blurry as he watched the screen, empty packet of M&M's dangling forgotten at his fingertips.

"Wait," Charlie tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "Sam's totally the Frodo of this relationship, which makes Dean the Sam."

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly and Dean ducked his head.

Charlie grinned. "I knew it."

"Sorry," Dorothy turned their attention back to the movie. She was frowning at it, tilting her head, and her eyes were narrowed in confusion. "But are you _sure_ that those trees aren't real?"

"It's just the magic of Tolkien, sister," Charlie sighed, laying back into Sam's bed. Then she paused. "With a little assistance from my main man, PJ."

* * *

 

_REFERENCES_

_Return of the Jedi:_ Chapter 6 of the Star Wars saga.

 _"You're an honest to god Fletcher Reed, you know that?" -_ Fletcher Reed was the main character in Liar, Liar (1997)

 _"I'm gonna have to go all Shawshank on your ass if I have to stay in here for another week."_ \- Shawshank Redemption (1994) is a movie where the main character escapes from a High Security prison.

 _"Well, it's either that or naming the bunker 'Stalag Luft', right?"_ \- Stalag Luft III was the name of the prisoner of war camp that the 'Great Escape' (1963) is based at.

 _"Right. We even have Dorothy's motorbike in the garage."_ \- Steve McQueen's character in the Great Escape attempts to get across the Swiss Border in arguably the most famous motorcycle chase scenes of all time.

 _Few more years and you'll be a dead ringer for Cousin Itt." ­-_ Cousin Itt is a character in the Addam's family who had long hair all over his face.

 _"Just, if I'm cousin Itt, you're Wednesday Addams." -_ Another character from The Addam's family who was best known for her homicidal thoughts and hatred of everything and everyone.

 _"On it, Juror number 8." -_ Juror # 8 was the main character in 12 Angry Men, a movie/play where he convinces the other 11 jurors that the boy on trial is innocent of his father's murder, despite extreme prejudice and racism.

 _"Don't be a moron, Buzz."_ \- From Home Alone

 _"I love you." "I know."_ \- Star Wars, Leia and Han Solo

 _"Me and Dorothy, and then Holmes and Watson?"_ \- From Sir Arthur Conan Doyles mystery's

 _"C'mon, Marty."_ \- Marty McFly, back to the future.

 _"Sam's totally the Frodo of this relationship, which makes Dean the Sam."_ \- Some main guys (Kripke or Singer, I think) said that Sam would be the Frodo and Dean the Sam of their relationship. So yay to that right.


	5. Running Up That Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bark from an invisible dog, a mutilated corpse and a ten year long enigma is enough proof for Jody to call Sam and Dean onto the job, to help her and Alex out.
> 
> Researched: Towns in Kansas, travel times, distance of Kansas to Lawrence
> 
> New tags: none
> 
> Rewatch: 9x19 Alex Annie Alexis Anne, 2x8 Crossroad Blues, 2x19 Folsom Prison Blues (for no reason. Just thought you ought to know)
> 
> Title: From the Kate Bush song of the same name. "And if I only could, make a deal with God, and get him to swap our places."

The holiday had been Jody's idea, but Alex hadn't fought her on it. They'd hardly been anywhere but Sioux Falls ever since the adoption papers had been signed and Alex could do with stretching her legs. Especially after the catastrophe that had been her going to the local high school.

Alex had her arms crossed against her chest as Jody drove them across the state to Kansas City, where she was attending a conference and then taking some annual leave. It was dark, they'd had to start late because of Alex's crapfest at the high school. Jody wasn't mad. Jody wasn't mad about _any_ of it.

It was almost unnerving.

Jody looked across at her and sighed, reaching over and squeezing her knee. "Hey, Kiddo. It's alright. It wasn't your fault."

"I know," Alex said, but Jody didn't look convinced.

"Seriously, Alex," Jody said, and she looked at Alex a little harder now. "Don't you _dare_ beat yourself up about this."

"I'm _fine_ , Jody," Alex snapped, and immediately wished that she hadn't. Because this was Jody, who had taken her in and forgiven her, for _everything_. This was Jody, who she'd _hated_ , and who she was beginning to love. This was Jody, who could read her like a book. And gotten exactly the response she was worried about.

"Look," Jody started, and Alex could sense how carefully she was choosing each word. "You don't have to talk about it to me, if you don't want. But you _can't_ hold onto it forever. You'll kill yourself."

Alex swallowed at Jody's severe tone, but didn't answer.

Silence lapsed, and Alex immediately wished that Jody would play music from the radio, or hand her a book, or relax her shoulders...or _something_. The silence was unnerving, pressuring. Of course, Alex had dealt with silence before. Most of her life had been too loud, and the brief patches of relief were welcome. But not like this, not... _ugh_. Everything was so _complicated_.

"I..." Alex started, and she looked down. She knew that if she started speaking, Jody would look across at her, and there'd be compassion and solace and friendship, and maybe even that small, warm smile that she stored away to remember when things got tough. "I just _really fucking_ tried, this time."

Alex could hear Jody shuffling in her seat. "I know, honey."

"And that boy, he was asking for it," Alex's fists clenched hard as she remembered the douchebag's taunts. "He was the _biggest_ dick, _ever_ , and I just..." She clenched her jaw. "I _hate_ bullies."

"You were defending yourself," Jody said. "It's not the schools fault that they―"

"No, I wasn't," Alex said, finally looking up and shaking her head. "Not me. Some girl he wouldn't stop harassing. She kept asking him to leave her alone. I think she was new as well, and, I just..." Alex could feel her anger beginning to heat up again. Just because she'd refused to see a psychiatrist didn't mean she wasn't starting to realise things. Thing about her mother and her brothers. "If someone wants to be left alone, they should be _left alone._ "

Jody placed a comforting hand on her knee. "Alex, honey, honestly, it's _ok_. It's _his_ fault. I know you won't want me to, but I _could_ go and talk to the school about it―"

"No," Alex said quickly.

Jody smiled wryly. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

Alex settled back into her seat and looked, slightly lighter of worry, out of the front window. The front lights picked up the road in flashes of the white lines running beside the car on the road. It burst in rhythmic jolts, white and then black, and then white and then jagged white. Like a symphony, or a music piece.

A long drawn out howl jolted her upright. She stared out the window and then looked quickly to Jody, who was frowning as she looked around.

"Coyote?" Jody guessed.

Alex shook her head, on the very edge of her seat now. The howl had been _so close._ "Didn't sound like one."

The howl echoed again, and the hairs on the back of Alex's hair stood up as it sounded like it was coming from _right beside_ them, even as the car pushed liberally down the highway.

" _Damn_ ," Jody swore and Alex's eyes were drawn to the speedometer as either consciously or not, the pace sped up.

And then, looking out the window, Alex saw a disruption amongst the bounce of white and white and black and white.

"Jody," she whispered, and then cleared her throat. " _Jody_! Stop!"

Without thinking, Jody slammed the breaks on and the car halted to a jerking stop.

Before it had fully come to rest Alex was bouncing out of her seat, seatbelt swinging back into place, car door forced outward as she pushed onto the road. She barely comprehended as Jody called out after her, just sprinted to where she'd seen the...the... _oh god._

"Alex!"

Alex didn't turn back to Jody as she knelt beside the mutilated corpse. She just sat by it, eyes wide, as she took in the claw marks and the wide, unseeing eyes. The whites reflected in the beams of the parked car, the glisten on the rest of the body cut off as Jody scrambled beside her.

The cop pressed a hand to her mouth and then her other one firm on Alex's shoulder.

"He's..."

"Call the police," Jody said, and her voice was level, her demeanour professional.

"What―"

"A bear attack," Jody said quickly. "We saw a bear, and then we saw the body. Do you understand?"

Alex nodded slowly.

" _Alex_! What are you going to tell the police?"

"That I saw a bear, and then saw a body," Alex said. She was slow, and the blood was too much to handle, too much like the bodies she'd been forced to step over after she led them to her family, but she could _handle_ this. Goddamn it, she _would_ handle this.

She took a deep breath and pulled out her phone. Her fingers still shook as she pressed in the correct numbers.

" _Hello? 911, what is your emergency?_ "

"There was a bear attack," Alex said simply. "There's a dead body."

She had no idea what was going on, she had no idea why she needed to lie, why she couldn't tell what she had actually heard. Some of her confusion was overridden, when she heard Jody speak into her phone.

"Sam? Hey. I think we've found something a little more in your ball park. Call me back."

* * *

Contacting Crowley had been Sam's idea, but Dean hadn't fought him on it. Sam expressed doubts over whether Crowley was just going to let them go, just like that, after keeping Sam's soul safe in the depths of Hell. Sam admitted he didn't remember much about hell, just the odd flash of comfort and the temporary vision of Crowley's incredulous face.

"We gotta know," Sam had said simply. "What if he comes to claim something when we need it least?"

Dean wasn't sure when 'need it least' would be, but he agreed with Sam's sentiment. After years of knowing next to nothing of the grand plan, it'd be good to see where all the aces lay for once.

The only problem was, Crowley was a tricky son of a bitch. He probably heard them summoning him, he probably felt that tug forcing him to where they were. But he didn't follow through with it, for whatever reason.

After the first 20 minutes, Dean hoped he was being tortured in someone else's dungeon.

After the first 40, he hoped that the angels had gotten him.

After the first hour, he hoped that Crowley was up to his neck in practical forms and paperwork, simmering in his own creation.

"Dude, seriously, I don't think he's coming," Dean said finally, pushing himself off the ground.

Sam sighed and followed him. "Yeah. Probably knew it, as well. Not for nothing that there's been next to no demon activity in the past two weeks."

At first, Dean had enjoyed the holiday. All they'd done between Charlie and Dorothy and now had been the odd salt and burn in the town over and fed Sam's curiosity about the key. Dorothy had left it with them when she and Charlie had left to go and find out how the Monkey's had gotten to earth from this end. They needed to close the portal, or whatever it was, and Dorothy seemed to think that it would be easier from the end they arrived in rather than where they came from.

The last time Charlie called, she whispered, conspiring with Dean, about Dorothy, a blue checked dress and Comic Con.

Dean knew that Charlie had missed earth as well. As much as she loved adventure, it was family that grounded her, inspired her. It was love and trust and friendship and laughter. She couldn't live without those things, not forever.

And Dean idly suspected that she _really_ wanted to meet Cas.

"You heard from Charlie?" Dean asked, as they walked, defeated, out of the dungeon and up to the uppermost level of the bunker.

"No, nothing, but they'll be fine," Sam said, adding the last bit at the drop on Dean's face. "They're smart, Dean. They'll find the portal."

There was a beep on Sam's phone on the library table, and the two went over to it curiously. Because if you knew Sam's number, then you must know something about something. Just enough to make your call special, just enough to garner you oddly attuned attention.

"It's from Jody," Sam stated, flipping it open with surprise and listening to the voicemail.

"Anything?" Dean asked.

Sam frowned. "Just that she thinks she's found something."

"Where is she?"

"Dunno," Sam said, a little distractedly, pressing the call back button and holding the phone over his ear. "Jody, hey!"

Dean watched his brother for any indication of what Jody might have found. Any flinch or clench, any surprise or denial... _anything_ would give him something to narrow down their infinite list.

Sam's eyes widened. " _What_?"

Dean inclined his head in question toward Sam and his brother mouthed 'Our Thing' before pressing the phone back to his ear.

Dean rolled his eyes. _Duh_.

"Shit, is Alex ok?"

"Sam," Dean said irritably, his voice low.

Sam shot him an absent, irritated look and bent back to the phone. "Damn it, Jody. How close did it get?"

"Seriously, Sam," Dean said, and his tone only deepened into annoyance. "What're we dealing with here?"

Sam finally seemed to understand why Dean was distracting him while he spoke. His eyes widened as he grasped the concept, and then he met Dean's eyes. There was a low thrum in his gaze, a mellow sadness.

A monster entrapped in some sort of tragedy then.

Didn't narrow the list down by much.

"Hell hound."

Dean swallowed a flinch. _Oh_.

* * *

The town wasn't far from the bunker, so they started early the next morning, rising before dawn and moving about like zombies as they packed their gear and stowed it above the fake bottom of the boot of the impala.

"How the hell do we know that the hounds are still even there?" Dean asked suddenly, as they hit the hour mark and steered passed another tiny town.

Sam shrugged. "Most Crossroads demons make more than one deal, right? I mean, they normally con a group of people at once."

Dean wasn't convinced. "I suppose."

"We'll see," Sam said easily, slipping back into the seat and yawning. "Better safe than sorry, right?"

Dean nodded his agreement. "Right."

* * *

Jody was out the front of the motel to meet them when the car pulled into the parking lot. She smiled and waved at them as they climbed out of the impala and walked over.

Sam smiled and bent to hug her. "Hey, Jody."

She pulled away and returned the greeting. "Hiya, Sam."

"Mornin', Jody." Dean smiled, hugging her as well.

She drew back and Sam decided business could wait, for a little while at least. "How have things been?"

"Good," Jody said, nodding, staring off to the side a little as she relived all that had happened between her meeting them with Alex and calling them to help her out with a case. "Hard, but good."

"How's Annie?" Dean asked, and Sam nodded in agreement, looking to the motel room he assumed was theirs.

"Alex," Jody corrected. "And she's fine. I mean, as fine as can be expected."

"Of course," Sam said. "And where were you guys going, anyway?"

Jody sighed and smiled tightly. "Holiday in Kansas City. I had a police thing, and was gonna take some time off so Alex could catch a break. Didn't think..." Jody sighed again and her smile dropped.

"Yeah, that sucks," Dean consoled. She flashed a smile in thanks.

"You're looking better, Dean," Jody noticed.

Dean coughed awkwardly and Sam filled in the blanks. "Yeah, we're just working through some stuff. And...uh, stuff."

That got a smile out of the tired sheriff. "Right. Don't let anyone tell you that you don't have a way with words, Sam."

Sam smiled, but then turned serious as he brought back the real reason that they were all standing outside a motel early in the morning. "So you're thinking Hell Hound?"

"I'm _knowing_ Hell Hound," Jody said, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "Couldn't see the thing, and the guy was the owner to this oil rig in the middle east. And, get this―"

"He bought it 10 years ago?" Dean guessed.

Jody smiled. " _Inherited_ it 10 years ago."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Wow." Definitely a soul collection then. "Do we know for sure that there are still people waiting to be collected?"

Jody shuffled and pulled out a scrappy white piece of paper. "After Alex went to sleep I did some digging. There are some people I have my eye on, but nothing concrete yet."

"Told you," Sam muttered to Dean.

"Yeah, thanks Sam," Dean rolled his eyes. "So, we'll take it from here if you and Alex want to head off to Kansas City."

Jody arched an eyebrow. "Really? You're gonna sideline me on this one? And I can't see Alex backing down either."

"I get that she's a good kid, but do you really think she _should_ be seeing this?" Sam asked, his voice was a little embarrassingly earnest. Because, God, she was _16._ She was just a _child_. And she didn't need this, didn't need the world to start seeming darker than it already was. She'd already been through so much, suffered through so much. She _didn't need this_.

Jody looked tense. "She shouldn't, no. But I take her away and she'll _crawl_ back. At least this way I can keep an eye on her."

Hero's complex. Sam clenched his jaw and looked down to the ground, avoiding Jody's worried expression.

When Dean laughed, it was bitter. "Yeah, we knew someone like that once. Wouldn't stay put anywhere for three seconds, not if it meant staying out of the field."

Sam ensured that his response was entirely internal as he deliberated on what Dean had said. Jo was a sore spot, a _very_ sore spot, for his brother. He hadn't mentioned her to any sort of extent since Osiris had used her against them nearly three years ago. When her ghost had been forced to try and kill Dean.

"Right, well, she should be up if you wanna get a room and then come to our room to run over the logistics," Jody said, musing her hair as she stretched. "Take your time. I'll need at least three coffee's before I have to deal with you two again."

Sam laughed and saw Dean smile. Jody had always been closer to Sam than she had been to Dean, but Sam knew Dean respected her and wished only for the best for her and knew that she felt the same for him.

"C'mon," Sam said to Dean, nodding to the motel reception with a nod of his head. "See ya, Jody."

* * *

"Now, considering the fact that it's officially a bear attack," Jody said, nursing a coffee cup as Dean and Sam settled into the seats of the table in her motel room. Alex was sitting on her bed, the covers messed about and her hair was a mess, but she was utterly alert as she took in the brothers and Jody. "You pretending to be FBI agents would definitely be out of the question."

"We could be journalists," Sam suggested, and he caught Dean's eye. The Last time they'd dealt with hell hounds, they'd just come clean about it, but if they wanted coverage for interviewing the police and family members, they were going to need something a little more substantial. Not to mention, you got more doors slammed in your face with the truth than you did with blatant lies.

Jody shook her head. "It's fine. Just leave it to me. You know, because me looking into it would technically _not_ be breaking the law."

Dean privately thought that faking witness to something was a pretty big legality issue, but didn't press it. He doubted Jody would get a criminal record for changing hers and Alex's story from bear attack to the attack dogs from hell. Institutionalized, maybe, named unfit for service, probably, but other than that...

"Can I come?"

"No, that'll be a little obviously weird," Jody answered Alex, who huffed and crossed her arms. Jody looked a little less chipper when she saw Alex's obvious distress. "Sam needs help researching though."

"And interviewing people," Sam added.

"So the journalist thing is a go, then?" Dean asked. "Awesome. I think I still have my pretentious jacket thing from that last time."

"Yeah, I still have my jumper."

"What, so I'll be some sort of intern?" Alex asked.

"Sure, you could pass as 18, couldn't you?" Dean squinted his eyes and studied Alex, who nodded.

"Sure."

"Awesome," Dean said. "Ok, who was the first person on your list?"

"Darla Higgins," Jody related, reading off her scrap of white paper. "Made it to exec of the local accounting firm at 25. 10 years ago."

"Awesome," Dean said again, this time with a heaved sigh. "Where does she live?"

"Should we split up?" Sam asked. "Cover more ground."

"You take Missy Bender―" Dean ignored Sam's bemused expression "―and Darla. Who else is there, Jody?"

Jody handed him the list, and nodded when Dean made a face at the number of people they'd have to sort through. "Awesome."

"Can you _please_ stop saying that?" Alex asked finally, looking a little peeved that Dean had dumped her on his brother.

Dean stood up and smiled. "No."

* * *

"Sammy, _crossroads_ demon," Dean stressed, as they got changed in their hotel room. "This could be our key to finding Crowley."

Sam looked like he was mulling over some internal debate, but Dean wouldn't let him simmer for long enough to make the wrong decision. They needed to see Crowley, they needed to figure out if the bastard had done anything unforeseen to Sam's soul or whether he was going to demand anything for it, and they needed to learn it early.

And then, they'd get onto Cas. Or Hannah, if their friend was too busy managing the infinite matters of Heaven.

"Seriously, man, this is it," Dean said. "This is exactly what we need. If we can't get any info out of her―"

"Then she could lead us to him," Sam finished. "Yeah, I get it."

"If it _is_ a she," Dean amended. "When was the last time we had a hot chick tempting us with soul selling?"

"Not exactly something I keep track of, Dean."

"Sure it is."

Sam's lips quirked. "Snooki."

Dean burst out laughing. "Oh yeah, I remember that." Then he sobered as he remembered the rest of that stanza. Magnussen and the First Blade, Sam tortured in front of him, the _surge_ he felt when he held the knife, complicated itself into a messy bundle. Dean coughed and took a second to regain himself. The mark was impotent, Missouri knew what she was doing. It was fine, _he_ was fine. He didn't have to worry, not for another few months.

Sam must have sensed where Dean's mind was, because he shot his brother a small smile. "Let's kick it in the ass, yeah?"

Dean managed to mask over his regret and fear and sadness as best as he could. "C'mon, Eileen."

Sam rolled his eyes but Dean felt something pang in his chest as his little brother followed him dutifully out of the room, the door clicking shut behind them, room unsoiled except for their bags, one on either bed.

* * *

Roger Rogers had possibly the most unfortunate name in all existence. Well, to Dean he did anyway. That unfortunate name was evened out by his massive home and young, beautiful wife, who opened the door for him when he knocked.

"Hey, I'm Dean Springsteen, journalist for the News Daily Business Bulletin. Mind if I speak to your husband?"

The woman had seemed taken aback, but welcoming as she accepted him into her home. She led him to a living room adorned with a Persian rug and expensive looking tapestry's, along with a humbly burning fire in the middle of the far wall.

"I'll just go find Roger," the woman said warmly, smiling at Dean as she disappeared into the back of the house. He hoped she actually _was_ going to find her husband, because if he wasn't mistaken, and he usually wasn't on this subject matter, this was how porn started.

"Mr. Springsteen!" Rogers announced himself with a pretentious jacket that rivalled Dean's and a boisterous smile. "What can I do for you?"

Dean stood to greet him and shook the man's hand, smiling generously and taking the seat opposite Roger as he sat down. "It's an honour to meet you, Mr. Rogers, I've heard so much about you."

"Ah, call me Roger," the man said in good humour. "Now, what are these questions? You're lucky you got me on a cancelled day. Was going to take the day off to go fishing before the weather came in."

Dean was pretty sure that blue skies didn't constitute cancelling a fishing trip, but he played along. "Sure thing Mr. Rogers. Now, I was just wondering, how _did_ you become so known and successful in the business world?"

Dean wasn't sure if there _was_ a business world, nor if Rogers was even that widely recognized within it, but pampering the ego always seemed to work and if his smirk was anything to go by, Dean had hit the jackpot.

"One day, I got out of bed and realised I wanted to be more," Roger sighed. "You know? Just wanted to do a little more with my life."

"And your rise to fame, that was 10 years ago, right?"

"Right," Rogers nodded. "That was when I just... _decided_. It was a beautiful day. Honestly, it really was."

"I don't doubt it," Dean said, forcing a smile. "And now, did you meet anyone to help you get to where you are?"

"Other than my wife?" Roger boomed a laugh. Like the idea of anyone helping him was ridiculous. The smile dripped off Dean's face and he just aimed to look a little less uncomfortable. It took a certain sort of douchebag to take responsibility for something he sold his soul for. Then again, he mightn't have known that he had sold his soul. Not everyone did.

But something about the way the man sat forced Dean to nearly _over_ consider the other option. He was so smarmy, so well dressed, so arrogant. The sort of personality that grated incessantly on Dean.

Despite that, he wasn't ready to spill his secrets yet. Either he hadn't started hallucinating, or had never sold his soul in the first place. Either way, there were probably people closer to the veil than he who they could waste their time on.

"Well, thanks for that," Dean said, standing up quickly and not bothering with the forced smile.

"Leaving? But you only just got here!"

"I've got everything I need," Dean assured him, almost absently. "Don't worry."

Rogers leapt up to see him out the front door, struggling to keep up as Dean walked briskly to the front door. "So, uh, when can I expect the article?"

Dean shrugged. "Week or so."

Rogers smiled again, "All good, I expect?"

Dean opened the door himself and turned to Rogers with an obviously fake smile. "Should be."

He stepped outside and Rogers bid him a generous farewell, before the door was closed and Dean pulled out his phone. "Sammy?"

" _Dean? Anyone shot Roger Rabbit?_ "

"Hilarious," Dean stated. " I don't think he's staring down the gun. Or not yet, at least. He was confident and definitely not hunkering down for the third world war."

" _You didn't_ ," Sam pointed out, and Dean knew the kid well enough to imagine the uncomfortable look Sam would be fighting at the moment.

"Well, I'm superman, aren't I?" Dean said easily. It was simple to keep his voice light and teasing over the phone. Probably the only reason that he ever called anyone at all was because it made his life of lies a lot easier. "Anyway, Sammy, you got anything?"

Sam snorted. " _No. Darla's secretary has kept Alex and I waiting for ages. You could probably come down, if you wanted._ "

"Sure," Dean said. "Let's hope she's more terrified than Rogers. And I mean that in the nicest way possible."

" _Of course you do,_ " Sam said, with an audible eye roll. " _Will you call Jody_? _She's been with the coroner all day_."

"I'll call her in the car."

" _You'll crash_."

Dean snorted. "I'd like to see that. Later, Sammy."

* * *

Alex must've been getting annoyed by now, or bored, or irritated by the tapping of Sam's shoe, but she looked complacent. Just staring as the workers bustled passed, smiling when someone smiled at her and dragging a length of hair around her finger.

Any attempt at conversation had gotten Sam monosyllabic answers, so he gave up on that one pretty quickly, comforting himself with that if _she_ could stand nonconversation, then he, a much older, much more world weary man, should be able to stand it as well.

It's just...they'd been waiting for a _really_ long time.

Sam cleared his throat. "So Jody tells me that you're heading to Kansas City?"

Alex nodded. Her voice wasn't dismissive in its tone, just its content. "Yeah." It was better than a murmur of agreement, so Sam took it as a good sign.

"Dean and I were born near there, you know," Sam said, casual. "Lawrence. Heard of it?"

"Lived there for a while," Alex said, and despite Sam wincing at treading on a sore subject, he gave himself the small victory that he'd managed to get 6 syllables out of her. 7 if he counted 'lived' as two. Which he totally did. Sort of.

"Dean should be coming down soon," Sam said, awkwardly changing the topic of the conversation.

"Huh," Alex responded, absent again.

Sam decided to let it go. If she wanted to talk to him, she would have talked to him. There were a few things Sam believed wholeheartedly in. One of them was protection of those who couldn't, or didn't, protect themselves, another was the inherent goodness of humanity, and the third was his never ending crusade for _choice_. The difference between Free Will and forced decisions.

So if Alex didn't want to talk, they weren't going to talk. Simple as that.

"Sorry to interrupt," Darla's secretary, obviously not interrupting anything. "But there's a man here who says he's a colleague of yours? Dean Springsteen?"

"Springsteen?" Alex asked, eyebrow arched.

"Uh, yes," the secretary frowned. He looked to Sam, who nodded.

"Yeah, he's my partner."

The secretary gave a breath of relief and hurried off to where he'd kept Dean waiting. Sam could only imagine Dean scowling, crossing his arms over his chest and giving irritated huffs every time someone asked if he was being taken care of.

"I thought I was your partner," Alex stated, suddenly talkative.

"You're my intern," Sam corrected good naturedly. "That means coffee runs and something to put on your CV at the end."

Alex wrinkled up her nose. "Sounds dumb."

"I'm telling Dean you said that," Sam told her seriously. "He was an intern once. Fake, like you. He loved it."

Alex actually cracked a smile at that. "What about you?"

"I was more a lurker," Sam sighed, remembering the Film Set case they'd taken seven years ago. "I was surprised they didn't kick me out."

"You have this innocent look about you," Alex said, scrutinising Sam. "They wouldn't have kicked you out."

Sam frowned. "Thanks?"

"It wasn't really a compliment," Alex informed him.

"Hey kids," Dean announced himself and sat next to Alex, so that she was in the middle of them. "Gotten anywhere?"

"We've been waiting for nearly half an hour," Alex said dejectedly. "And Sam won't let me play on his phone."

"I told you, there's no games on it."

"I could _download_ some."

Sam sighed and handed his phone over. "Fine, but don't like, stuff up the settings."

Dean watched them with raised eyebrows. "It's like working with children."

"I am actually a child," Alex stated briskly, eyes downcast towards the phone, fingers moving quickly over the buttons on the screen. "And Sam's practically a child."

"I'm 31."

"So?"

Before Sam could protest, and tell Dean to shut up and stop laughing, the secretary from before interrupted.

"Sorry about the wait, Darla will see you now."

* * *

Alex could only watch as she saw what the brothers do best. They pretty much ignored her, leaving her to herself in the chair at the back of the room, where she pretended to take down notes and scrutinise what Dean and Sam were doing.

Alex cast her eyes down to the paper Sam had given her and smiled to herself when she saw the ingredients for Mars Bar slice written out in a shopping list. She caught Darla giving her a curious look, so to save her the trouble of acknowledging it, she scribbled down 'Ben and Jerry's' as well.

Underlining it every so often to keep up appearances.

"So," Dean said. "10 years. That's a pretty impressive effort."

Darla smiled. She was attractive, in that middle aged, corporate woman way, with hair styled into a perfect bun, and just the right amount of eye makeup to make her eyes pop, but then also for it to not look like she was trying too hard. She had the look down, the 21st century woman, and despite the fact that she'd gotten to where she was through questionable means, Alex had to salute her on her wardrobe choice. "Thank you! Yes, I can't believe how fast this decade has flown."

Sam took to the floor now. Alex could sense, when he asked his question, that with his soul-searching puppy dog eyes, he was more equipped to handling the tougher, more delicate areas of investigation. "So, uh, how do you respond to allegations that you got a lot of _help_ getting to where you are?"

Darla stiffened slightly, but Alex could tell she'd been asked this question hundreds of times before. "I think that if a woman rising to power is so foreign that it must be unethical, then America and the rest of the world has a lot to answer for."

 _Good answer_ , Alex grinned, underlining the Mars Bars on her list of things she was going to buy for ingredients for the slice.

But Sam wouldn't be swayed. "There have been rumours, and you must understand, that with how _quickly_ you rose through the ranks..." he let himself trail off, the blanks filling themselves with an apologetic wave of his hand.

Darla sighed. "Look. Ok, ten years ago, I was nothing. But then, one day, I caught a break. Isn't that the American dream?"

Alex saw Dean smile, but it was a sour ghost of the grin he'd given when she'd bickered with Sam waiting to be let in. "Just, that, the good ole' American dream isn't all that delivering in most cases."

Darla's smile turned forced and she conceded his point. "Yes, that's true. Very true. That in cases like mine, I become the exception."

Alex underlined 'Mars Bars' for a third time when Darla's eyes turned about the room, trying to settle on hers.

Dean shot Sam a glance, and Alex understood what it meant. In most circles, it probably would have meant 'you've got to be shitting me', but considering their circumstances, it was more along the lines of 'sold her soul, no two ways about it'.

"Let's talk about Hell," Dean said finally.

Darla's genuine confusion wasn't lost on any three of them. "Hell? Why?"

"Do you believe in Hell, Ms. Higgins?"

Darla frowned. "I don't understand―"

"Just answer the question," Alex rolled her eyes, calling up from the back.

The Winchester's turned to give her a double bitch face, which she ignored, entrapping the entire attention of Darla Higgins.

"I, uh, yes. Yes, I believe in Hell."

"So you believe in Heaven?" Dean asked. Sam shifted uncomfortably. It was a realistic cause and affect question, but it had no real end. Ask about Hell and you'd ask about Heaven. Perhaps they'd use the information to paint her as a bible thumping catholic asshole, or they'd use the morals of the church to paint her in a more positive light. _She could NEVER take power, she's a CHRISTIAN!_

Alex nearly snorted. Yeah, right.

Darla nodded slowly. "Yes, I believe in heaven."

"Demons? Angels? What about them?" Dean asked. Alex found some sort of peace in the lilt and balance of their questions. Dean was hard firing and short, Sam was genuine and comforting. Alex had to say, however alike they were, they complimented each other well.

Darla nodded again, fingers tapping, agitated, on her desk. However she thought this interview would go, this wasn't it. "Well, to believe in Hell and Heaven is to believe in Gabriel and Lucifer, so yes."

"Lucifer wasn't actually a demon," Sam informed her.

Darla looked confused and Dean raised an eyebrow to his brother, who started fiddling with the edge of the desk absently.

Dean cleared his throat. "Right. Now, Darla. One more question―"

But before he could, she drew away suddenly, gasping, heaving her breath through her lungs. " _No_!"

"Ms. Higgins?" Sam asked, concerned, leaping to his feet and preparing to go around the table. "Is there something wrong?"

Darla pointed at Alex with a shaking finger. "What is _wrong_ with her _face_!"

Alex scowled and rubbed a hand along her jaw. Jesus. She'd started moisturising and everything.

Dean seemed to understand the situation a little better, getting quickly to his feet and waving a hand in front of Darla's stricken face. "Darla! Snap out of it! It's not real!"

The woman, eyes wide with terror, looked up at Dean's comforting abruptness. Order, humans responded well to order and to people who took charge. There were leaders and there were sheep in this world, and everyone had a turn at playing both.

It only took which one you _preferred_ playing to see where you ended up.

Darla sucked in a deep breath of air and pushed her hands desperately over her eyes. Sam gingerly went over to her and placed a hand on her back.

"Darla," he said, starting softly.

Alex couldn't help feel relieved when Dean just came out and spat it out. There was no easy way to tell someone that they were damned to an eternity in Hell. No way at all.

"You sold your soul, Darla," Dean stated shortly, eyeing her intensely, checking for any responses, checking to see what she did next. "You're on a Highway that only goes down, my friend."

It would have been the sort of thing that Alex would laugh at, was the tone not so serious and the woman not quivering so much. When she looked up, she stared first at Alex, as if trying to ensure that she couldn't see her hallucination anymore. Alex felt a pang in her chest and screwed her hands tightly into fists to stop herself reaching across and comforting the executive.

"My _soul_?" Darla demanded, pushing Sam's hands off her back and standing up tall, a little breathless. "You _insane_ bastards―"

"10 years ago, someone came, told you they could solve all your problems..." Dean waved his hand. "Want me to continue?"

"I..." She swallowed. "Yes, a woman. She told me...she told me I could get the job, if I just... _worked_ at it! She wasn't the _devil_!"

"No, but she was a demon," Sam said, and the softness and empathy of his tone clashes headily with Dean's. "And she did stake a claim on your soul. I'm sorry, Darla."

She closed her eyes and breathed tightly. Alex hoped she wasn't about to have a panic attack, because it didn't look like either of the brothers would be entirely equipped to handle that, and she certainly had no idea what to do. It was times like these that she wished Jody were here. Jody always knew what to do when _Alex_ was losing grip with reality or happiness or whatever.

There was still the crappiness, but Jody managed to hold it at bay.

"Did you kiss her?" Dean asked, and despite Alex fully believing that was the kind of thing you could only ask seriously in a Soap Opera, he managed it pretty efficiently.

Sam watched, stricken, and caught eyes with Alex, as she nodded.

* * *

Dean had watched as Sam had asked Darla three things. Back in her home, surrounded by Goofer dust, she recited it off dutifully, wincing every now and again. Dean didn't ask whether it was the facial hallucinations, or the sounds of the hounds barking in the distance.

The name? "Stacy. Stacy Robinson." She said that she _might_ still be around, but whenever Darla was out of the office, she was making trips to Kansas City or New York, As small as the town was, it wasn't small enough for her.

What she'd looked like? "Red hair, white. Blue eyes, a tattoo on her fingers."

Where she'd met her? "Johnson's Bar. Main street."

How they'd managed to con Alex into standing guard over the Flight Risk was a mystery all in itself. Sam just took her off to the side when it looked like she was going to refuse, and she came back with a huff, handing the list she'd made pretending to be intern to Sam, who raised his eyebrows at it.

He grinned as he stuffed it into his pocket.

"So, to the bar then?" Dean clarified as they made their way down the stairs of Darla's massive home towards where the Impala was parked.

Sam nodded. "Might as well check it out. Town this size, guys probably been there from the start."

"We could try and summon her," Dean figured.

"Well, for one, no demon in their right mind is going to make any deals with us," Sam said, jaw tight. "Not anymore. And we don't know it's name to make a different sort of summoning. Which, thanks to Crowley, we know that it doesn't even have to come to."

"It could just be because Crowley's all juiced up now he's king of hell," Dean said, scratching the back of his head. "But whatever. Never thought I'd rue the day demons wouldn't come try find me."

Sam snorted in agreement. "Yeah, I'm with you on that one."

* * *

"Oh yeah, Stacy," The bartender nodded, standing across from them, adorned head to toe in the stereotype. Dean admired the Zeppelin tattoo on his arm and number plate on the back of his neck that probably had some sort of material value. He placed down the glass he'd been polishing and crossed his arms. "I remember her. All legs, right?"

Dean grinned and Sam shared an uncomfortable glance with his brother. "Um, yeah. Right."

The bartender dropped the smirk. "She's not in trouble, is she?"

"No, no, of course not," Dean assured him. "Have you seen her, recently?"

"Stacy?" the man asked. "Course. She never left."

Dean felt his blood cool, his heart pick up its pace. He forced himself to calm down and smiled uncomfortably at the man. "Right. Of course. Do you know where we could find her?"

"Gee, officer, I dunno if she'd be ok with me―"

"This is a serious investigation," Sam snapped. "We don't have time for this. Either you know where she is, or we leave."

"It's a small town," the bartender was icy. "We look out for our own, boy."

"Tell us," Dean ordered, and there was no room for negotiation in his voice. All the good nature they'd brought was lost, and an iciness spread across the room, hovering in the air like the wisps of mist in the crisp winter mornings.

"Well, she ain't Stacy _Robinson_ anymore, is she?" The begrudging tone of the tender didn't give, but his arms slipped a little looser as he gave in. "She got nice and married."

" _Married_?" Sam asked, before he could help himself.

Dean shared another glance with his brother, this one a lot more worried.

"Yeah, tha's right," the bartender nodded. "Good ole' Roger Rogers. Been good to her, all these years."

Dean's mouth was dry when he asked the last question. "How long have they been married?"

The bartender gave a gapped grin. "Why, you comin' in with 'Ms. Robinson'...they been married about ten year. In fact, ten years tomorrow. The Rogers and I, we keep in touch. Stacy's always been real good to me."

* * *

"He's not picking up the phone," Dean snapped, pulling his hand back to the wheel as he slapped his phone shut on his knee.

Sam didn't bother with the 'he's probably fine', considering he very much probably wasn't.

Sam felt his phone vibrate on his leg and pulled it out, checking the caller ID before he answered. "Jody! Hi. You got anything for us?"

" _Nothing,_ " Jody replied, her sigh echoing through the cell. " _How's Alex_?"

"Fine," Sam said, and judged it best not to let Jody know her adopted daughter was watching guard over someone toeing the edge of Hell. "We think we've found the crossroads demon."

" _It was part of society_?" Jody asked, and her tone was suspicious enough that Sam wondered what exactly she'd been getting up to in the time away from he and Dean. " _That's gotta be off, right_?"

"Right," Sam agreed tersely, looking across to Dean, who's jaw was intimately held tight and his eyes were a mixture of panic and worry. They hadn't really spoken about it, but if the demon had seen Dean, she'd know who he was. Where both he _and_ Sam were. Sam had no idea what they were driving into. All he did know was that there wasn't going to be anything good when they came out the other side.

" _Sam_?"

Sam forced himself to pay due attention to the conversation he was having, even as the chimney of the massive house started to come into view over the horizon. "Sorry, Jody, what was that?"

" _You make sure you get Alex somewhere safe before you go after it, right_?"

Sam was relieved he'd had the forethought to leave Alex behind. Although, at the time it had more to do with leaving Darla a companion and not making too much of a scene entering a licensed premises. "Yeah, yeah. She's safe, Jody."

" _Ok, good_."

"You're not gonna tell me and Dean off for doing something stupid?" Sam goaded, trying to keep his spirits up as the Rogers house grew ever larger through the front windscreen. There was a demon in there, and a man who'd probably sold his soul.

The phone couldn't have possibly properly captured her laugh, but it warmed him and strengthened him all the same. " _That's a lost cause, sorry Sam. See ya._ "

"Bye, Jody," Sam replied, clicking the call off just as the car rolled into the driveway.

Dean took one look at the claw marks across the door before swearing and leaping out of the car, slamming the impala's door and racing through into the house.

Sam fumbled with his seatbelt but followed as fast as he could, mentally running down everything he had on him as he took the running steps up to the ajar front door. He had the flask of holy water, Ruby's knife held carefully and familiarly in his inside pocket and his phone ready on the pre-recorded exorcism.

Dean ran through it, throwing it wide open and Sam charged in after. The Rogers had a nice house, or must once have, because under all the smashed glass and the ruined busts, despite the clawed floorboards and ravaged walls, there was a simplistic elegance to the turn of the staircase and the flow of the hall.

The expensive order of the architecture was still obvious as Dean nodded for Sam to take the stairs. Sam took his gun out, the one loaded with Salt in one hand and reached down as he ascended to the first floor, nabbing the knife out of his jacket and holding onto that. Hand down and up, all within the breadth of a step.

Sam knew calling out was a bad idea, he knew that if Mr Rogers _could_ hear him, he'd not be likely to respond to some unfamiliar man's voice. But Sam needed to do _something_. Wilting around with a gun in his hand made him feel more than redundant. He reached the top stair and looked around.

There was a demon somewhere, and a pack of hell hounds. And here he was, scowling through a strangers destroyed house. With no sign of the Damned stranger.

"Mr Rogers?" He tried again, turning in a circle, catching a glimpse of the view from the window. The house made the most of natural light, tickling tendrils scorching through the windows.

" _Sammy_?" said a soft, feminine voice, with a honey sweet southern accent from behind him. "Sammy boy? Is it really you?"

Sam kept a tight hold on his gun as he turned to see who he was dealing with. The demon had blood on her fingertips and along her lips. There was flecks of it on her cardigan and pants, but other than that, she looked picturesque.

"Where is he?"

"My husband?" she asked, walking forward. Sam jerked his knife and gun up warningly and she stopped, with a short, mocking smile. "Well, he's _dead_ , Sammy."

"It's _Sam_ ," Sam snarled, and the words came out as naturally as they had eight years ago.

"Sold his soul to hell," she sighed, continuing on as if she hadn't heard him. "Get's all of 'em in the end."

"All of who?" Sam asked, despite himself. Because _he'd_ gone to Hell, and _Dean_ had gone to Hell, and he wanted to know what they made him. What this _bitch_ thought it made him.

"The selfish ones, of course," she purred, and the Hound made a low rumble at the back of its throat.

Sam braced himself against turning to see if Dean was edging up the stairs. He knew he only needed to buy a little time.

"How'd you know me?" Sam spat out, digging around to find something else to pause time on.

"Didn't you hear? You're famous, Sammy! All over Demon News. Got your mug shots on every brimstone and fire street corner." She smiled. "It's all a bit exciting, really."

"Crowley's put out a hit on us?" Sam asked, and he found it a little harder to believe than usual. What with Crowley's humanisation and then his lack of apparent hatred towards the Winchesters in the past year.

She arched an eyebrow. "Oh, no. I didn't say that."

Sam glanced around, searching out for the telltale shiver in the air and low grunting thrum that gave off where the hell hound was. "Where's Fido?"

"Katie?" Stacy asked, surprised. "Why, she's doing her job. She and I, we were _very_ busy ten years ago. She's got a lot of souls to collect."

Sam clenched his jaw. "Bring her back. _Now_."

The demon snorted. "Or what? You _know_ how it works, boy. You kiss the devil and you pay the price. It's how it is and it's how it's always going to be. There's no escaping it." Her mouth pointed upward, lazy and cruel. "You of all people must know, there's no way of getting out a demon deal."

Sam didn't have time to develop into a fuller conversation of what she _did_ mean about Crowley, or get into an argument about the year he'd watched Dean mauled to death in front of his eyes. Because Dean might have dampened the Mark of Cain, and he might have started to brush off years of loneliness, but he was _the_ Dean Winchester. He was Sam's big brother. He was half the duo that monsters had nightmares about.

And she didn't see him coming.

She fell heavily to the ground as Dean smashed a vase across the back of her head. It reverberated and sounded sickeningly across the room. Sam watched as the demon collected herself, ignoring the trickle of blood slipping down her forehead. Dean was watching her unflinchingly, resolute and ready.

When she groggily rose, he smashed it again, this time the clay of the pot bounced trembling off the side of her head and splintered across the room, dusting over the carpet and across the floor. This time when she fell, it was permanent enough for a breather, to relax, regroup, and charge again.

Sam met Dean's eye.

Dean nodded to his unanswered question. _Are you alright_?

It wasn't so much of an affirmation than a _Are you_? But Sam would take what he could get.

The demon wasn't down yet though. She pushed angrily at the ground, adrenalin spurring her into action. Sam felt his fists clench. He didn't know what to do. Demons were hard enough to kill, and this proved that they were damn near impossible to capture. They'd needed to set up a trap, or _something_. What hope did they have now?

"Sammy," Dean yelled across the room. He kicked at her head and she collapsed again, hissing in frustration as she pushed herself to her feet. "Clear out of this funky town!"

Sam glared. "No—" But then he paused, for the breadth of an instant and mulled over Dean's words. It was weirdly phrased and oddly stilted, and as Dean tried to kick at her again, it clicked in Sam's head.

She twisted and tore him down, pulling him heavily across her, smacking his head onto the floor. Sam felt the same thrill of panic rush across the bottom of his stomach as she attacked his brother. Urgent flashing red broke across his vision. All he could think about was getting her _off_ him, all he could think about was her ruthlessness and _Dean, Dean, NO._

He did the only thing he could think of, desperately, he let the chant flow out of his mouth. " _Exorcitamus te—_ "

She twisted away from Dean and hissed at Sam. Her face was nearly unrecognisable, monstrous and inhuman. She lunged at Sam, splaying her hand and flinging him against the wall. He hit it with a thud, ignoring the pang along his shoulder, leaping for the way Dean had come, crashing down the stairs as fast as he could go, heartbeat a deafening drum in his ears. He couldn't hear if she was following, not yet, not as he plummeted from the top of the stairs to the bottom.

He hit the floor with a crash and stilled just for a moment, to gather his strength and assess the damage. His rib ached and his wrist panged, but nothing more than that cried out in the few moments he gave his body to complain.

Sam stumbled to his feet and kept running as he heard her bounding after him. Gone was the preservation and finesse. Since Dean had disorientated her, she'd become a savage creature of instinct, determined to chase him down, determined to devour them both whole. But she'd forgotten Dean in her savage delight in hunting Sam, and he just prayed that she'd forget long enough to put what he suspected Dean had done into play.

He leapt into the kitchen and didn't stop until he was safely behind the breakfast bar, a quick glance at the ceiling telling him he'd come to the right place. He held his hands ready carefully, watched the doorway and the windows, and kept his breathing even, his feet spaced cleverly apart.

She jerked into the hallway, face flicking from smiling to snarling to smiling again. And every time she took a step her form shook, like the human she was possessing was slowly coming apart.

And then she stepped through the doorway.

Sam stood up straight and smiled, letting his shoulder relax and feeling the pain he'd been ignoring flow around his bloodstream. But he couldn't feel it as he watched her, watched her cock her head in confusion, watched her hiss in fury as she looked up.

Dean staggered into the room from the other end. His mouth was bloody and he favoured his left side, but he was upright and easily conscious as he took in the scene in front of him.

"Got her, then?"

Sam winced as his wrist flinched as he pushed his mused hair away from his face. "Yeah. Got her."

Dean moved to Sam's side, and though he must have noticed Sam's injuries, didn't say anything. Not yet, at least. Centred in the devils trap was the demon, who was slowly regaining her sense of the world and watching the brothers with unbridled _murder_ in her eyes. They watched her back, breathing out of synch, and heavily, combating the injuries that she'd given them.

"Funky town?" Sam demanded suddenly. "Out of all our cue words, you go for funky town?"

Dean shrugged, and winced after he'd done it. Sam wanted to know how deep his brothers wounds went, but he had no idea whether that would help or hinder his healing process. "Seemed like the most accurate."

"We need to expand our list."

"I don't know how many times we're gonna need to say, 'I've set up a devils trap downstairs', but you're the linguistics guy."

* * *

With some manoeuvring, they managed to get the demon into cuffs and sitting in a more approachable area of the house. Sam and Dean sat opposite her on the couch, each brother taking up a pillow each, watching her, just watching, as she struggled against their bonds.

Finally, Dean broke the silence. He'd found the demons aggressive quiet to be unnerving. Most of the time, demons fell into three categories. There were the sadistic, which was where most fell. Liked to smile as you screamed and laugh as you cried, relished in your suffering like your pain was some sort of antidote to a crippling disease they'd been suffering all their lives. Then there were the violent ones. A lot of demons fell into this one as well. Probably suffering from anger issues as a human, they were vicious, little more than attack dogs. They spat out insults, a dime a dozen, but they were easy to separate from the crowd, and their desperation made them easy to kill. The third were the ones more like Crowley. Douche bags, bitches, ass holes. The worst sort of narcissists and dictators. They rose above it all with a slight smirk and arched eyebrows, with condescending smiles and patronizingly slow voices.

But all three spoke, all three never really stopped talking at all.

"First things first," Dean said expressionlessly. "Where's Crowley?"

Dean felt Sam shift next to him, drifting a little closer to the demon, eager for her answer.

She just tilted her head.

Sam didn't even need to be told. His flask of holy water was out and ready before Dean had even finished speaking. With a splash, he emptied half of the bottle onto the chest front of the demon.

Dean found some sort of grim satisfaction when her shrieks of pain confirmed that she had a voice at all.

Dean stood, he bent over and stared hard into the demons eyes. "I said, where's Crowley, _bitch_?"

She gasped, still seizing in pain and looked pointedly away.

But Dean wouldn't be swayed so easily. "Sam?"

His younger brothers holy water came readily, this time in two hits, and each time seemed more excruciating than the last. She arched her back and screamed, and Dean pulled back a little, resisting a child's instinct to crawl onto the floor and hide his head between his hands, begging for the howling to end.

He gave himself three seconds to compose himself.

He pushed through after two.

" _Where is Crowley_?"

She just glared at his face, breathing heavily. When he leant forward, she brought out a wad of spit and sent it hurtling towards his face.

Dean made a face and wiped it clean with the back of his wrist, sleeve of his top dampening with the saliva.

"Tell us," Sam stated, and Dean took in his little brothers profile as he heard Sam's voice, so cold and to the point. There was no too big of a movement of his lips, and his eyes held her pitilessly.

Dean turned back to the demon. Despite whatever the hell people thought about them, which roles each played, Sam was scary. Sam was _terrifying_ , when he wanted to be.

Then, glaring, she stared hard at Sam. "I don't—"

Without waiting for her to finish, he emptied the rest of the holy water over her lap and down her front.

"Well, you're talkin'," Dean said, smiling without humour. "Let's start with somethin' easy, yeah? What did Roger sell his soul for?"

The demon looked coldly proud of this. "Money and a wife that would never age, and stay young and beautiful for him forever."

Sam's eyebrows were raised. "So you possess a young, beautiful woman and marry him? What the Hell? Why?"

"Dunno if you've noticed," the demon snarled, and the use of her tongue seemed to be coming back more easily now as she developed progress report on the last ten years she'd spent on the outside. "Hell's kinda been a mess lately. Didn't want to dip my toes back in before I was sure it was all kosher."

"Sweetheart, it's hell," Dean informed her, placating. "It ain't ever gonna be kosher."

She snorted. "That's what you think. Hell used to run like clockwork. Under Azazel and Lilith, we had an aim and a target and all we needed was a means. And Azazel and Lilith, they didn't... _fuck_ around with humans and angels and deals, they did what they had to. They kept us alive. Kept as monsters, typhoons trapped on a keychain." The smiled again, that cold distant smile that she'd shown them before. "We were perfect."

"And Crowley...?"

"Is a buffoon," She informed them.

Dean noticed a flick in her eyelid, a tremble at her chin. He leant down to meet her, eye to eye. "You're lying."

Sam cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "Dean—"

"No, Sam," Dean dismissed, and he stared hard at her, waiting to see if she'd crack.  "Where is he?"

She was silent again.

Dean quirked his eyebrows in a 'here we go' gesture and pulled out his own selection of holy water. Without ceremony he tipped it over her shoulders and chest, where it seized and hissed, great wafts of white smoke curling up from the top of her legs and base of her neck.

"Where is he?"

No answer.

He responded by tipping another few drops over her body.

"Honey, I got a months worth of this stuff waitin' for me in the impala. I can do this all day."

For a moment her eyes widened into true desperation, before morphing again into a disparaging sneer.

Dean shrugged and sighed. "You asked for it." And sprayed her again, this time watching her unblinkingly as she let out a scream of searing pain.

"Dean," Sam said hesitantly, and Dean drew back, standing side by side with Sam. He knew Sam was more uncomfortable with having to watch than having any issue with the ordeal altogether. But when he and Sam were eye to eye, Sam gestured his head off to the kitchen.

Once there, Dean looked up at Sam, frustrated. "Ok, what?"

"Gee, think you could cool it?" Sam demanded, glancing back to the room with the inhibited demon, voice low and urgent.

Dean frowned. "Why?"

Sam paused like he didn't know how to phrase what he was going to say next. He was watching carefully, like he didn't know how Dean was going to take it. Like he might take it badly. "How... _strong_ exactly, is Missouri's spell?"

Dean backtracked and stared at Sam, hard, understanding immediately what Sam was insinuating. Because it dusted at the corners of his consciousness, and had done, ever since they'd picked up the case with Charlie and Dorothy. Ever since he'd felt adrenalin pumping through his veins and his muscles pounding with frenzied energy.

He didn't answer his brother, not fully. He just looked away, and hoped that it would be enough without saying that he agreed with Sam. That he was _terrified_.

Sam cleared his throat. "Ok. Right, so just leave it to me, from here on out."

Dean raised his head harshly. "Sammy, no. I'm not gonna ask you—"

"You're _not_ ," Sam pointed out, equally defiant. "I'm _telling_ you."

* * *

Crowley made himself invisible and watched.

Because if the king of Hell _was_ going to talk to the Winchester's, he wanted to know that they _were_ just going to talk, and not that he was about to end up on the pointier end of that pig sticker they'd picked up along the way. Crowley wasn't furiously attached to life, but he did value his over a lot of other peoples and those people contained a decent number, Sam and Dean finding themselves smack bang in the middle of all of it.

Crowley sat in one of the plush armchairs as Sam interrogated the Demon to Crowley's whereabouts. Her silence was promising. If she got out of this in one piece, she'd definitely be looking at a raise. Maybe even extended leave.

He knew why they were doing what they were doing. He'd told his demons to stay _away_ from the   
Winchesters for this exact reason. They all knew where he was, and if they knew where he was, then the brothers would find some way to get it out of them. Perhaps Stacy hadn't gotten the memo, but she was holding up exponentially well regardless.

When Sam shared a meaningful look with Dean, and reached into his jacket to pull out his knife, Crowley felt a deep pang deep inside his heart.

He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. _No_. Not again. He'd thought he'd kicked the human thing, thought that it'd been dusted off when he'd handed Sam back. He was starting to worry that he'd _never_ regain the ruthlessness he'd relied on for all those years.

But...he...

Crowley forced his eyes open and stepped forward, his glamour falling off instantly. Both of the Winchesters jumped as he appeared, the grip Sam had on his knife increased tenfold, mouth braced back into a snarl.

"Hello, boys," Crowley greeted lazily.

"My king?" Stacy asked, and her voice was wispy.

It made for a weird sight, the four of them gathered under the sun streaming through the window, the plush pillows, remnants of the life that had been built for Roger Rogers and his demon wife splayed around the room like it had been left to a group of children.

Crowley almost sighed with relief when the violent thoughts pursued him through his brain. That both the Winchesters were injured, that killing them now would be laughably easy. And Crowley could see it. He could see his hands spreading wide, his eyes turning black, a ghostly smile carving itself knife, by knife into his cheeks. He could see their spines snap and their heads crack, could see the blood that would trickle down in a river of red and gore and merge together. He could see _all_ of it.

But there was that _thing_ , the thing he'd grown to loath and depend on. That thing that stopped his hand, stilled him from actually going through with it.

Crowley responded silkily to Stacy. "Hello my dear."

"Crowley," Dean stated angrily. "We've been trying to summon you, you son of a bitch."

"I came, I turned invisible, I left," Crowley recounted drily. "Etcetera."

"Why did you save my soul, Crowley?" Sam demanded. "What do you want?"

"I don't _want_ anything," Crowley informed them. "Why the hell would I want anything from you? I'm the king of Hell, morons. I can get whatever I want without your help."

Neither brother was swayed. "What do you _want_ , Crowley?" And this time Sam's voice had an edge of desperation ringing around it. Crowley wondered if Sam suspected that he'd go for his brothers soul, if he'd claim it for himself. He wondered if Sam was scared that he'd lose his brother again.

He tried to feel indifferent. He _really_ did. But that ache, the one that had spurred itself and just kept running reared it's goddamned head again.

"Well, for one, this demon," Crowley gestured to Stacy, who was slowly regaining her breathing. She looked over at him in surprise. He pretended to ignore it and continued. "And for another, a little faith, if you'd please, boys."

"Faith?" Sam asked, incredulous. "In _you_? You're a _demon_!"

Crowley frowned. "That's a little harsh, isn't it?"

Crowley watched as a triad of emotions crossed the younger Winchesters face. From confusion to wondering to a deeper, resonating discomposure. If _Crowley_ remembered nearly being cured and all that it entailed, then the man who'd gone through with the trial would surely remember it as well.

_I just want to be loved!_

_What?_

"Truth be told," Crowley stated suddenly, and he wasn't sure why he was. Perhaps, in this lapse, where he was neither demon nor human, there was some loss of control over himself. Perhaps this was all some technicolour dream, and he'd wake up soon, humming and in the clutch of a murderous heart. "It was a shame I had to give you back."

Neither responded, they just watched him carefully, the fingers around the knife slowly growing tighter.

Crowley didn't look at either of them. "I would have liked a full set."

And he didn't give them a chance to pursue the train of thought. All he gave them was a look, and then a click of the fingers that unfastened the bonds around the demons wrists. With a jerk she disappeared, and after  beat, Crowley followed her lead.

* * *

The ride back in the impala was quiet. Sam nursed the worst of his injuries with minimal discomfort. None were life threatening and it'd be like he'd never had them at all after a week. Dean's shoulder was inflamed and his ankle was twisted, but he ignored all of it, and only grunted in answer when Sam asked if he was ok.

Sam supposed it was all he was going to get.

Sam pressed his hands to his rib, the one he suspected of breaking, and winced, thinking about Crowley. Thinking about the demon. Thinking about _everything_. "The Hell did Crowley mean, a full set?"

Dean's hands loosened on the wheel, like he'd been waiting for Sam to pick it up. Like he'd not wanted to start the conversation and be responsible for where it led. The world sped passed them, and Sam watched as his brother carefully chose what he was going to say next. When Dean was usually so spontaneous and instinctive, Sam felt a cold sort of dread slink down across his limbs, itching out against his fingers.

"He was talkin' about your soul," Dean said, clenching his jaw. "I...I dunno, Sammy."

Sam nodded and sank deeper into the leather of the impala's seats. "Right. Yeah, neither."

There was a silence, which Sam broke but accidently letting out a gasp of pain as his rib seized, the adrenalin from before easing off as he relaxed.

Dean glanced over. "You're letting me have a look at that when we get back to the motel."

Sam's voice was small when he answered. "Alright."

A shifting silence fell about them.

Then Sam cracked a smile, and pushed his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a creased sheet of paper and, with a glance, Dean saw that it was the sheet that Alex had been writing on when they'd been interviewing Darla.

"Somethin' funny?" Dean asked, trying to read the scrawled letters from the driver's seat.

Sam just flashed the list to Dean. He was smiling still, the sort of smile he reserved for warm days and clean hotel rooms. "She's listed the ingredients for Mars Bar slice. She wants us to pick it up on the way back."

Dean was bemused. "Seriously?"

Sam placed a hand on his ribs, but he was still smiling, staring down at that little white piece of paper. "Seriously."

* * *

With the monsters and the demons all locked away for the moment, Jody and Alex were bade farewell by the Winchesters as they drove on out of the motel car park. The enigma of Darla Higgins hadn't been solved, and the Winchester's wondered what would happen to her soul now that the demon controlling the Hell Hound was out of the picture.

Nothing good, though, was the general consensus.

Jody's truck showed itself out into moving traffic, and Alex waved back at them, smiling a little smile. As they watched through the windscreen, Jody placed her hand comfortingly on Alex's shoulder.

Neither brother said anything as Jody mothered the girl. Neither said anything about the deep shafts of pain that shot through their systems at the sight.

Sam, who'd never been mothered, never _had_ a mother.

And Dean, who missed it so much that sometimes he felt like he couldn't breathe.

"They'll be alright," Dean said, complacent, as the car was whizzed off along the road, one moment theirs to see and smile at, and the next off for them to miss and theirs to remember. "Jody and Alex. They'll be alright."

"Yeah," Sam affirmed, and he looked across at his wistful brother, hand pressed again to his aching rib. "Yeah, of course."

But neither spurred from the spot they were in. And neither made a move to encourage the other back into the motel room.

The wind spent itself across in a roll, and Dean hit his brother comfortingly on the shoulder. "So."

"So," Sam agreed.

Dean grinned. "Chinese or Indian?"


	6. Paradise Rediscovered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas, Hannah, Dean and Sam try to work out what Crowley meant. Meanwhile, Dean is paid a visit by an old, unhappy acquaintance.

All people met their end. All of them. And it was _especially_ Hunters. That life of darkness and misery, stake outs and bad food, cheap clothes and the numbing to pain and loss, was everything and nothing.

Death was welcome to Hunters, death was averted by Hunters at all costs.

Even the Winchester's who seemed to bound back into life like every time they died or damned themselves was a nap, a brief pause from then to now, will fade away at one point. One day, there'd be no one to remember that they'd existed.

It wasn't pretty. It didn't have to be. It was just the truth.

Even so, Jenny Truman didn't think that she'd be kicking the bucket on her very first hunt. She supposed that it was the thing that a lot of newbie Hunters would catch themselves on. There's not really anything that can prepare you for what the Life brought. Even when she'd helped the hunters that had come to expel the poltergeist that had killed her husband, that had left her with nothing in the case of the rugaru that her first turned out to be.

When she stood up, and looked down, she nearly screamed.

She jerked away and looked hard in the other direction, breathing hard and letting the wispy bits of her hair come down and cover her face.

Because there she was, and when she finally proved brave enough to look again, she saw herself, her dead self, once more.

And it was _horrific_. Eyes wide and vacant, lips spread slightly awry, caught in an unuttered scream. The rugaru pressed his mouth to her neck and wrenched out a casserole of meat and muscle and tissue, blood streaming off it, flicking out like tear drops along his white carpet.

Now Jenny was locked in terrified fascination. The red stared out harsh against her dead self's skin, her body was spread like a rag doll, one of her two palms facing outward, like it was praying.

Like _she_ were praying.

And then she snapped out of it, because there was a voice behind her, and she certainly hadn't heard anyone else in the house when she'd first come in. "Jenny, turn around."

And because she was surely dead, and gone, and because she was so lost, and everything was beginning to sink in, Jenny did. She felt the hysteria build in the back of her throat, gasping at her eyesight, snarling at her lungs. She couldn't keep this up. She was going to _drown_.

" _Jenny_."

And this time, when the voice spoke, she _listened_. She allowed herself to recognise the softness, the comfort that it offered. And when she looked up and met the woman's eyes, she felt her lungs slowly fill and decompress.

"I'm—"

"Dead," the woman finished easily. She took a hesitant step forward, like everything she did was keeping Jenny in mind, like everything she did was infinitely calculated and thought out. "Yes, you're dead. You're a hunter, right?"

Jenny nodded slowly, blinking and forcing herself to answer the question. "Ye—Uh, well, sort of. I was..." she tightened her jaw and forced back the wave of panic. "This was my first. My, uh, yeah, _first_."

The woman nodded slowly. "Do you know what I am?"

"A reaper?" Jenny guessed, thinking back to the list of monsters, good and bad that the Hunter's who'd cleaned up the poltergeist situation had left with her.

The woman nodded, and she smiled. Under any other circumstances, Jenny would have hated that smile. It screamed _children_ and _youth_ and _I'll take care of you_. And Jenny knew that it was _patronising_. But these were hardly normal times. And she hardly had anything, now, against a little coddling.

"My name is Tessa."

"Tessa," Jenny repeated. She wasn't sure if she was doing it to assure herself and the Reaper that she was following the conversation, or whether it was because it seemed off that an ancient being would have such a simple name. She was surprised that she could pronounce the name at all. She frowned. " _Tessa_?"

The Reaper smiled, and her long mane of black hair shifted about her shoulders as she took another few steps forward. "It was my grandmothers name. Sort of a family thing."

Jenny acknowledged that the Reaper was trying to make a joke, but with her body being ripped to shreds a few metres behind her, the best she could offer was a small smile.

Tessa didn't seem offended though. She just took another step forward, so that the two women were face to face.

Jenny couldn't look anywhere but her eyes now, almost hypnotic in their earnest, blueness.

Tessa smiled sadly. "Are you ready to move on?"

"I..." Jenny felt her hands screw into fists. _Ready_? She hadn't saved anyone yet! She hadn't done _anything_ yet. The best she could boast of was distracting the poltergeist in her husband's case long enough for the Hunters to get their job done. She knew all of this lore and all of these truths that she hadn't a few weeks ago, and now she just had to _leave_?

It was so _unfair_.

Jenny tightened her jaw. When she answered, her voice was steadier, but rueful. "Is anyone?"

Tessa seemed nonplussed. Jenny wasn't surprised. She supposed that the reaper had seen and heard it all. All the begging, all the crying and questions and lamenting. "Not really, but you'd be surprised." When Tessa spoke next, there was a fragile severity to her tone. "There are some people who recognise the peace that death would bring them."

"Nobody wants to die," Jenny countered, feeling very small.

"Of course not," Tessa acknowledged. "But not everyone wants to deal with life, either."

"The better of two evils," Jenny muttered, to herself more than to the reaper. "Seems pretty depressing."

Tessa's lips pursed into a cynical smile. "It's a depressing existence."

Jenny knew that she couldn't stay. You _didn't_ stay, because if she did, she'd turn into the sort of thing that killed her husband, killed hundreds, if not thousands of people. She'd wilt into an angrier, uglier shadow of herself. The Hunters had told her.

 _When your time comes_ , the said. _Which it will, sooner now that you're bein' stubborn 'bout this huntin' thing...you_ go _._

But she couldn't help it. "Will it hurt?"

Tessa frowned. "Will what?"

Jenny felt her hands roll themselves into the fabric of her jeans, tucking the blue fabric under her nails. "Whatever comes... _next_."

Tessa watched her for a beat, before shaking her head slightly, eyes full of apology. "I can't tell you what comes next."

"Oblivion?" Jenny guessed. But Tessa's amused expression gave nothing away, other than her experience with people trying to force out where the next path would lead them.

"Wait," and from behind her, shifting out of a glamour a young man appeared. He was youthful and handsome, and he was peering at Jenny like she was an exhibit at the zoo. "We don't tell them?"

Tessa seemed almost irritated by the comment, and by the time Jenny's already stilled heart had stopped trying to beat out of her chest, the Reaper rolled her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Tessa apologised, looking to Jenny. The man looked uncomfortable, but didn't stop staring hard at the dead Hunter. When  Tessa spoke next, Jenny sensed an undercurrent of hope, a bright river that snaked beneath a dark sky. A forgotten hope, perhaps, or recently reawakened. Either way, it was faint, but it _thrummed_ with life. "He's new."

* * *

"Thanks Matthew," Dean farewelled into his cell, crossing his arms over his chest after throwing it off onto his motel bedspread. He turned to Sam, who'd been waiting for him to get off the phone after he'd gathered the gist of the conversation after coming out of the shower. His hair was damp and the water bled into the cotton of his shirt, but he didn't seem to notice, watching Dean carefully for any indication of how severe Matthew's phone call was.

"Well?" Sam demanded, a beat after when Dean should have filled him in.

Dean ran a hand through his hair and leant against the table. "A hunters been killed by a rugaru."

"Anyone we know?" Sam asked, and his voice was already surrendered. The chances that it was, was high. After the past few years. Hunter's had become more and more scarce, and as the numbers dropped, so too did the size of the network. There was no Ellen and the roadhouse to divide out jobs, there was no Bobby to rely on if you'd come off the worse end of a kitsune, there weren't even the Campbell's, the very last resort.

So everyone knew everyone.

Which sucked, because everyone who knew the Winchester's always ended up dead.

But Dean shook his head. "She was new. Jenny, uh, Truman, I think. Something like that. Anyway, she kicked the bucket, _but_ ," Dean crossed his arms again, relaxing as Sam guiltily let his shoulders dropped unburdened for a few more weeks without the grief that came with losing someone close to you. "Her soul, it didn't hang around."

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

Dean gestured to his phone. "Matthew and Carlos checked the place out, EMF'd it top to bottom after they took down the Ru', and nothing, no sign of her."

Understanding alit in Sam's eyes. He dumped the towel and dirty clothes he'd been carrying onto the bed and sat down next to it. "So, the Reapers are back in business."

Dean nodded, smiling. "Cas is pickin' up the slack."

Sam smiled as more relief eased his back. He leant forward and rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, shaking his head in disbelief. "I... _damn_. This is actually working, huh?"

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean agreed, standing up and cranking open the creaking old fridge. He pulled out two beers and walked over to Sam, handing one to his brother, pulling off the cap at the same time as Sam. "Cheers to us, right?"

"And Cas," Sam affirmed. "And Hannah, and Tessa, and..." Sam's eyes softened with grief for a moment, and Dean slowed, wary of what Sam might say, but he pulled himself out. "Everyone, _everyone_ , else."

Glass clinked and they took identical swigs, downing a near quarter of the glass in one go.

"So," Dean said, moving away and tidying up the weapons he'd been organising on the table. "What now? Head on back to the Bunker?"

Sam stood to join him, instinctively knowing which weapon to hand him when. Sam stood opposite him across the table, hair still wet from the shower, cheeks a little rosier with the alcohol and good news. He nodded slowly. "I guess...I was..."

Dean looked up curiously. "What?"

Sam didn't meet his eyes. "It's just... _Kevin_."

"Oh," Dean said, and then his eyes widened as he realised what Sam meant. Because now that Heave was figuring itself out, they could call on Cas or Hannah to bring him back like they'd brought back Sam. " _Oh_."

Sam fidgeted. "Yeah."

An uneasy silence fell on them both. Because they _both_ blamed themselves for the prophet's death. They _both_ held themselves to that. Sam had watched his hand extend, and Dean had forced it.

Sam's voice was small when he spoke next. "You know we're going to have to talk about this at some point."

Dean didn't respond.

Sam frowned. "Dean."

Dean looked hard, back to his weapons. He glanced up at Sam. "You got Linda Trans number, right?"

Sam wasn't unhappy, or sad, or even disappointed, but his expectancy of Dean's response was almost worse. "We don't have to talk about it now, but we _do_ have to sometime."

Dean coughed. "Right, yeah."

The silence that cloaked them was awkward and thick. Dean knew that he had to push through it, make the next step. Sam had done enough, he couldn't do anymore. He knew better than anyone that trying to force Dean to do something never worked out well.

"So, uh, you think we should try bring Kevin back?" Dean pressed back, and while it wasn't directly addressing all the things they really needed to talk about, it came close. Close enough that Sam let a smile slip.

Sam nodded. "Of course. Anyone deserves to have be brought back, it's him."

Dean nodded slowly. He moved away from the table, leaving the rest of the weapons to be packed as they moved out in the morning. "I'm not arguing with you on that one."

"So we just wait till Cas is free?" Sam asked, moving around the table so that he and Dean faced each other.

Dean nodded his head in affirmation. "Sounds like a plan, Sammy."

Sam let out a huff of air. "Awesome. Right, so, you want me to go get dinner?"

"Sure," Dean shrugged, collapsing back onto his bed. The ceiling rushed around to meet him, and he stared up at it, trying to make the smoke stains and weird decor into a series of images.

Sam sounded amused when he spoke next. "The usual?"

"You got it."

Dean didn't sit up when he heard the door slam, when he heard a shout back from his brother that he'd only be a few minutes.

He lay there, in the quiet, for a few minutes, and focused his hardest on not pouring himself a drink. Fingers curled into the doona he was lying on, eyes locked helplessly into the air a few centimetres off from his face. The world seemed to slow and his mind began to run rampant, everything he'd been repressing, every sound and taste and friend that had been buried under work and drive and the mark was brimming to the surface.

But he _had_ to fight it down. Because if he didn't perhaps it would trigger the mark again. And perhaps he'd go back to the way he was before. And then, perhaps, when he killed his brother again, he'd _enjoy_ it.

Dean felt _sick_.

Not ill enough, though, to stay lying down when a voice sounded from next to him. "Dean Winchester."

He jerked upright and reached for his colt. He pulled the gun out and pointed it at the offending intruder.

He sheepishly lowered it when he saw the unamused glower of the man who'd been at the receiving end of his mortal weapon.

Death was unchanged. The white Horseman could have passed as a scholarly great uncle, or a humourless librarian, but Dean saw him for what he truly was. He was the entity born at the dawn of time, he was a god of immense power for destruction and disgrace, he was a storm trapped within a body and he was the thunder that drew blood from the ground.

Death had told Dean once that he was to end every single existence. He'd end God's, one day, and all the angels. He was impossible to kill, as he was death, and he held the gasping collection that was humanity with an air of distaste and a curled lip of disapproval.

He was terrifying, and the subtle anger clouding over his face was enough to tell Dean that he wasn't his favourite person at the moment.

"Death," Dean greeted cautiously, standing to greet him.

Death looked at him pointedly. "Sit."

Dean complied, and looked at Death warily, silent.

Death didn't sit, he just stood and watched, piercing eyes cutting through Dean like lasers.

Dean wondered what he was here about. Wondered what had set him off. If it was the Mark, or killing Metatron, or something else completely.

"My job isn't easy, as you well know," Death said slowly, his preface building severity with each word. "But your walk in my shoes is the _speck_ of a blimp on the severely mis-ratioed diagram of my life."

Dean didn't say anything. Greetings were never usually a big thing with death. Normally there was a threat, then words were exchanged, then deals were made.

Dean tried to forget that the last time he'd seen Death, he'd been collecting Sam's soul, to take it to Heaven.

"What were you doing?" Dean asked, and his throat tasted heavy, his words sounded immature and overly inquisitive next to Death's controlled tones. "This year, I mean. With the spirits and stuff."

Death's eyes grew dark at the interruption. "My job is to take, not to carry. Death is leaving this life, rebirth is entering the next." Death's head tilted. "Whether it be Heaven or Hell."

Dean couldn't help but mutter, "Glad that's cleared up." and was promptly ignored by Death who continued.

"I have done much, seen much, been the witness and the scapegoat for wars and famines and diseases," Death's eyes glinted, almost amused at the irony. "I have seen the world on its brink and I have seen _desperation_."

His last word was decisive, and Dean felt it hit. Empathy, searing, burning _compassion_ scored through his heart. He had felt desperation, he had gotten drunk off it as it bled into his veins. He had nearly been poisoned by it as it beat in time with his heart, and heaved with the comes and goes of his breaths.

The way Death looked at him, Dean was sure that he already knew.

And before he said it, Dean guessed what Death was going to say.

He looked at the human across from him, eyes downcast, figure imposing and powerful. Dean was at his mercy the same way an ant is at mercy to the shoe that comes down beside it, the way the seed from a tree floats with the whims of the wind. "You brought Sam back."

Dean swallowed when he realised Death was waiting for an affirmation. "Uh, yes...yes I did."

Death's face did not change. It was almost eerie in its sameness, but then Dean figured that nothing was surprising him. That it wouldn't were Death _not_ all knowing.

"Death and Life, as I'm sure you know," Death started again. "Have a line drawn between them. Thick in the sand. Once you move one way, you can't go back. Sometimes people get caught on the line, they toe either side, but in the end, they always move on. The bowl of the dead grows, the fields of the living expand. Until both sides are toe to heel, staring in one direction."

Death let silence fall.

"Not you. Not you and Sam, though. You stand on either side, but you face in. Face to face, eye to eye, close enough to touch each other. You play the same balancing act as each other, and it's with keeping the other balancing across the line that you keep _yourselves_ from falling over."

Dean still didn't answer. He felt a coldness stir inside of him as he imagined that, him and thousands of others facing the same way, all except Sam, who stood stock still and defiant, facing away, facing towards Dean. A small, trusting smile on his lips.

"And there, Dean, is where the problem lies." Death was almost sympathetic now. The bite of his words was stifled as he appealed to Dean. He let his eyes rest softly, and Dean was appreciative of the effort the Horseman was going to. "That is unnatural. That is not right. It is an _affront._ I have claim over Sam. I have claim over you.  However much you might have saved the earth, however much you might have forestalled its closure, everything meets its end. The world will, and you have."

Dean stared at his hands, hard.

Death's voice was almost soft now. "I have claim on you both."

Dean looked up at him. "So, what? You're going to take me? Take Sam? Whisk us off to Heaven? Or damn us for eternity?"

Death tilted his head. Dean couldn't be bothered to feel worried about invoking the horseman's wrath, because what more could he do than what he'd already promised? The Winchester's had met their end. Met it scolded by someone a lot stronger and a lot more powerful than any of them had a chance at beating.

"I am not here to kill you, Dean. Not you or your brother."

Dean felt tension dissipate and confusion bubble up to take its place. "Wait, what?"

Death looked almost _amused_ as he took in the elder Winchester. "With all the trouble that death and the afterlife has been dealing with in the past year, you truly think I'd concern myself with reaping two souls myself? Treating with two souls myself?"

"You came here, didn't you?"

A trickle of Death's humour melted away. "And waste barely an inch of the time it would take to deal with you fully, yes."

Dean didn't really get it, but he decided not to push his luck. Death was tetchy enough as it was, he didn't need to give him another reason to want to kill him. Whatever luck he'd had in befriending the entity in the past was pure luck and circumstance. And neither of those things were something he usually had large amounts of.

"But you must be punished, Dean."

 _Punishment_. He closed his eyes and he saw the abandoned blazing eternity that was Hell. The screaming and the begging. He saw all the nightmares he'd had about Sam, trapped down with Lucifer and Michael and Adam, all the imagined ways that they were ruining his brother.

He managed to reply with a weak, "Oh."

Now the glint of amusement was back, but there was no warmth behind it. Dean was struck then, like he'd never been before, by how entirely _unhuman_ the thing standing across from him was. How dark and dangerous and deep. "Killing you would not punish you, Dean, not really. However, killing—"

Dean's voice was hoarse and desperate, he fought against the rising urge to stand, to shout and fight. Because he knew what was coming. He saw it. " _No_."

But death carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "—Sam would."

"You _said_ that you weren't going to claim us," Dean glared, feeling his body contract, ready to fight. Ready to fight this unbeatable thing to save his brother.

Then again, he'd eluded death before.

Death raised his eyebrows. "I did."

"Then—"

Death silenced him with an impatient hand. "Sam will die before you. You will know a life without him, you will know a life where you know, resolutely, that there is _no way_ to bring him back. No deal, no angel, no time travel or Reaper. Nothing. There will be no way for you to bring back _anyone_ else either." Death was looking at Dean, and there was real pity in his eyes. "But of the Winchester brothers, Sam will die first. And you will _have_ to let him go."

Dean stared at Death hard. "And what if I don't want to?"

Death shrugged. "I don't care. Life and death is not something to be played with. It is a direct line. Remember, this sort of conformity isn't domination, this sort of conformity is a bone bare _necessity_ to the circle of human life."

"Sam, and I... _please_ ," Dean said, and that desperation Death had been talking about before, it was taking over, fuelling his words, his angst, his despair. "It's only been a few times, and we...look at all we've _done_. We've died, what, three times each? And every time we've had a legitimate reason for coming back." Dean could feel wetness clothing over his eyes and he blinked it away furiously. "Just, _please_ , not Sam. I...I _need_ him, please, _please_."

Death looked a Dean blankly. "During the conundrum almost five years ago, did you know that Lucifer promised to bring Sam back, no matter how many times he killed himself?"

Dean felt cold, he felt trembling. Of course he remembered that time, that endless Winter, that series of days that would have served better as nights, those months of waiting and hoping and cracking.

"Do you ever wonder," Death said slowly. "How many times the devil had to fulfil that promise?" Death's face dropped, and when Dean saw him now, the horseman was weary. He'd travelled a long road, seen many things, and had many things to see yet. "Your brother deserves rest, Dean. This isn't punishment, not really. This is a new _chance_."

Dean didn't answer. What could he say? What possibly was there left to add?

Dean tensed as he heard something muffled over his shoulder. He turned around but didn't see anything. If Death had noticed, it didn't show.

"Goodbye, Dean," he said crisply. "I don't doubt that we'll meet again."

And the murmuring grew louder, and Dean realised that it was his name, and it came louder and louder, until the world around him seemed to sway and swallow, until it gasped like a the snapping of dusk to night.

* * *

"Dean! Hey, buddy, wake up," Sam squeezed Dean's shoulder and watched, eyebrow raised as Dean dizzily shook himself out of the stupor. "Hey, idiot."

Dean blinked up at Sam, confused. he ran an awkward hand through his hair before using both elbows to prop himself up. "Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam answered, waving the plastic bag full of greasy, heart stopping food in front of his brother. "I got dinner."

Dean sat up and massaged between his shoulder blades, cracking a grin. "Bout time."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Right."

Dean shook his head, like he was having trouble moving out of sleep and looked disorientated as he walked to the table. "Man, I had the weirdest dream."

Sam pulled out his dinner and span the bag across so Dean could pick his meal out. "Cool. I don't really care."

"You weren't there, but, like, _Death_ was," Dean still looked a little out of it, ignoring the plastic bag in front of him and staring off over Sam's shoulder. He frowned a little. "He..."

After Dean had trailed off, Sam found himself growing irritatingly curious. "Well? What he want?"

Dean just shook his head, this time dismissive rather than confused. "No, I mean, I don't know. I can't remember."

"Right," Sam was dubious, but he didn't press the matter as he cracked open his Soy Chicken salad. "Manage to find any jobs, or did you clock off as soon as I left?"

Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Must've. I can't really remember. I was lying on bed and I sorta drifted, you know?"

"Sure," Sam allowed. He didn't really follow, but that was mostly because he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a decent sleep. Maybe towards the start, when Gadreel had been possessing him and monitoring all his activity, but beyond that and before that it was always disjointed, always spotted with nightmares. It was a good night if he managed to fall back asleep after he awoke.

Sometimes he dreamt about the cage. Sometimes he dreamt about, more recently, reaching out and killing Kevin. Other times it was just the dark and running. And he was always alone. And sometimes, sometimes it was that age old nightmare. Jess castrated above him on the ceiling, a younger him raising a hand to grasp her, to pull her down. A younger him screaming out her name.

"Salt?"

Sam shook his head and Dean rolled his eyes. "Your loss, Ramsay."

Sam shot him an exasperated face, which Dean avidly ignored. As he reached for the salt and brought it around to his collection of fries, he jerked with surprise.

Sam looked over quickly. "What's wrong?"

Dean was staring at his thumb and didn't answer, and Sam could tell his brain was being kicked into overdrive.

"Dean," Sam barked, and Dean caught himself and looked across the table to meet Sam's eye. Sam stood when he saw _fear_ reflected in his big brothers eyes. "What happened?"

"Noth—"

" _Dean_ ," Sam snapped, and he moved efficiently around the table to take the seat nearer to his brother. He span it so that as he sat on  it, he faced Dean. He looked at where Dean had been looking and his eyes widened as he took in his older brothers thumb.

"What the hell?" Sam wondered softly, stricken with confusion. He frowned and looked to Dean to see if he had any idea. Sam stopped before he went back to look again when he saw that Dean was _definitely_ overstressed. It was weird, but it wasn't _that_ weird.

"Dean?"

"Oh God," Dean managed, the blood had pooled away from his face and his faint freckles now stood out dark against the ghostly pallor of his cheeks. "It wasn't a dream. Oh _God_."

"Dean, seriously man, what's going on?" Sam desperately scanned his memory for anything retained from listening to Dean only a few minutes ago. But the information had been forgotten, lost as he saved room for the important stuff. But the senses were still there, the ideas of what he had felt when he and Dean had been speaking.

Dean didn't need to answer in the end, because Sam remembered. He remembered the odd dash of safety and fear, the clash between light and dark. Death and all that he entailed.

"Shit," Sam murmured, and took Dean's hand staring at the root of his thumb. Because there, between the thumb and the forefinger, was a black dot.

Dean and he had always had to entertain themselves when they were younger. More often than not, the TV was crap and the kids at the school they went to wanted nothing to do with them. During the school holidays especially, they had nothing. They had no one except each other. And as they got older, and Dean was the sole carer for Sam, they lost their father as well. They had books though, and Sam would learn and he'd tell Dean all he knew, and then Dean would nod along and listen as he made them both dinner.

When Sam read a book on pirates, the theme had run throughout all their games until they were too old to play together anymore. The black dot had been a odd favourite of Sam's, the idea behind it, the fear that lurked between the whole pirating world because of it.

And as they watched, the symbol for a Promise of Death eased off Dean's fingers, melting into his skin, like it had never been.

Sam met Dean's eyes and saw that the paleness wasn't abating. He assumed that Dean wasn't getting so worked up over a bit of ink and a party trick. He let Dean's hand drop and Dean pulled it back to his chest, rubbing at the skin where the mark had been.

"Dean, what the hell happened?"

"It was Death," Dean explained, and while he looked discomforted, he was slowly regaining himself. "He came and saw me."

"Right, yeah," Sam nodded. "What did he say?"

"That I was in trouble for bringing you back," Dean said, dropping into his work mode. There was determination in there now, perhaps not determination to find Death and change what he'd done, whatever it was, but determination to get through all that he had to.

"Well, can't say I'm really surprised at that one," Sam said drily, but Dean didn't look amused.

"He said..." Dean looked lost. "He said I needed to...to learn a lesson, I suppose."

Sam could feel panic shift in his gut. "What? What do you mean?"

Deans hands clenched into his pants, pulling hard at the fabric. "He said that you were gonna die first."

Sam felt a deadly calm descend upon him. When he spoke, his words were eerily straight and normal. His mouth dried and his eyes blurred, but his words were not stilted. His tone was not panicked. "Am I dying now?"

"No," Dean's words were almost a whisper. "But you _are_ going to die before me."

Sam didn't need Dean to spell out the rest. Didn't need him to say that this time, there would be no second chances. This time, there would be no coming back. Because they were cats with spent lives, holding onto each other more than the ledge as they dangled off a cliff face.

Sam's food sat uneaten in front of his vacated seat. But that initial hunger couldn't have been further from his mind.

"I won't die, then," Sam said, and he swallowed. He looked up to Dean, who was watching him warily. "I don't die, you..." _You aren't alone_.

"You gotta die some point," Dean countered.

"Of course," Sam said. "But dying _now_ , dying...here and now...I mean, man," Sam let his eyes bore into Dean, not looking away as Dean stared back. "Remember that hope? Of that light?"

"Sure," Dean allowed.

"It's dimmed," Sam admitted. "But _still there_. And if we could just _get_ to it, maybe..."

Old age and mortgages. Bad day time TV and sore bones. Reminiscing and nostalgia. Sam didn't know how to spell it out, how to make it more obvious. Because there was no one left for him but Dean. Amelia had her love and her life returned to her despite all chances, and Sam was in no place to impede on that. Anyone else who could have been his was dead, Jess, his last image of her stretched high above his head, Madison, tear filled eyes as he turned his gun on her, Sarah, coughing blood and gagging, dying while he could have saved her.

All he had left to grow old with was his brother. The only person he _wanted_ to grow old with was his brother.

Dean still hadn't spoken, but colour had returned to his cheeks, and he looked more at peace.

"I'm not dying," Sam promised. "Not yet."

Sam hated that there was some relief in Death's promise to Dean. Because this way, it would finally be _final_. This time, no more people would get hurt, because of him.

"I know what you're thinking," Dean said roughly, looking down at the hands still balled into the fabric of his jeans. "You're, uh, relieved, right?"

It seemed like a pretty basic way of putting it, but Sam nodded jerkily. "Yeah."

Dean paused, and Sam could _feel_ him trying to put the words together to say what he needed to say. "If you think you're hurting less people by dying, you're wrong."

Sam looked up and frowned, and opened his mouth, but Dean cut him off before he could start.

"Why..." his brother smiled humourlessly. "Why'd you think I tried so hard to save you, Sam? Why'd you think I _always_ try to save you?"

"Because..." _Because Dad told you to, because it's what's been forced into your head since day 1. But that's not the point. The point is, you shouldn't have to. You shouldn't feel that you need to._

Dean seemed to get what Sam was going to say without him saying it. He gave off a low laugh. "Right, yeah. No, man. We're family. We're brothers. We're all we've got left."

Sam felt his heart pang mercilessly in his chest. He looked into Dean's eyes, to see if there was _anything_ to imply falsity, hell, he'd even take insanity. But Dean's gaze was strong and clear.

"Sammy," and Dean nearly choked on the word. "You, dyin'...it's the only thing, the _only_ thing, that could..." his fists clenched again as he fought for words. "The _only_ thing that could break me, ok? You got that power, and I got that power, and we pretend to forget, but we both know. You could destroy me, and all you gotta do is kill yourself."

Sam didn't know _what_ to say. He didn't know whether to respond that he felt the same, that even when the world was falling around them, the one thing he'd always been able to count on had been Dean. He didn't know how to say it without actually _saying_ it.

"Death told me, by the way."

Sam frowned in confusion. His voice tasted rusty when he spoke next. "Told you what?"

"About Lucifer," Sam tensed at the name. "And the suicide pact thing."

Sam stilled and sat up straight. He made no too big of a movement, and he carefully wiped his mind  blank.

"How many times, Sammy?" Dean's voice was probing and quiet.

Blood replaced with poison, coursing through his system, stabbing its way through his psyche. _Please, please, let this one stick._ Desperation traded in for rational thinking, despair for intelligence, alcohol for water.

"A few," Sam said finally. _A lot_.

Dean read between the lines, and his face fell. But he picked it back up and nodded. "Ok." And then again. "Ok."

Sam couldn't have known, watching the facade his big brother put up, the turmoil and the guilt, the anger and the fury that was hidden beneath Dean's exterior. How sick he felt, how close to running into the bathroom and vomiting. How much he wanted to raise Lucifer, just to throw him back.

But that sort of anger had a cost, so all Sam saw, was a nod, and contemplative eyes.

* * *

Heaven, over the past few weeks, had been Hellish. Cas would have been amused by the relating of the two things had he not constantly been so distracted from the constant pressures of ruling such an expanse. Hannah had been no end of help. She'd been on top of everything, overseeing the filing of Metatron's private files and running the campaign to find the Angel blade. Even with the stress, they'd managed to remain friends, managed to remain companions.

Now she helped him, seated next to him, across Metatron's wide desk. Cas hated the thing, hated the entire room. But the even the meagre energy that it'd take to transform the room into something more palatable couldn't be wasted. Every inch of himself was devoted to helping Heaven.

The idea had been Hannah's idea, but the interviews had been Cas's. As much as he believed in his brethren, he didn't trust them. Not yet.

"And you wish to remain on earth," Hannah said. Her being there added another layer to fall back on as well. It was unsurprising that angels didn't take well to Cas, unsurprising but not unexpected. He had tried to take over Heaven, after all. And perhaps some of them would see that this was him succeeding.

The angel across from them certainly did and only responded when it was Hannah who asked the question.

"I do," Hampton said properly. Her hands were folded on her lap and the image she appeared in had perfectly placed hair and a detached vision of perfection. Nothing was forced and everything fit.

Hannah nodded, writing something down. Cas felt redundant, sitting and watching, but he didn't object. "And why is that?"

"I was situated in a hospital before I joined Metatron," she said simply. Cas watched her carefully. He would be able to sense lies, especially in Heaven where the truth was so paramount, but angels had learnt to glamour it, following the lead of their superiors. Cas saw no lie, and the slope of his shoulders was read by Hannah. This sort of communication had become important. Anything Cas said or did could be taken the wrong way. _Anything_. "I helped people. I healed the sick. I would like to go back."

"How did you gain entrance to your vessel?" Hannah asked, writing something else down.

Hampton's expression didn't change, nor did the sounds of her voice. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Was she fully aware of the consequences for such an action?" Hannah pressed, encouraging Hampton to come forward with what she'd done over the past year. "Did she _know_ that she was leaving behind her entire life, her agency, that she was basically killing herself to serve you?"

Hampton shifted, uncomfortable more at the phrasing than anything else. Cas saw that when she spoke, she was still being truthful. "Yes. I explained the possession fully. She was a devout catholic, and was prepared to say yes anyway."

Cas was always afraid of that. There is no special place in Heaven for vessels. There is no remembrance or celebration or scripture. The people that the angels possess will be forgotten. And they will probably die.

Hannah nodded, finishing scribbling something down. "Now, what do you know of the new laws?"

"Killing a human constitutes an Age of imprisonment," Hampton recited dutifully. "Killing an angel, a similar term. Forcing humans to do your bidding is also a crime, as is possession under false pretences."

Hannah nodded, impressed. "Very good, Sister."

She caught Cas's eye and he nodded as well, to Hampton, who watched him with unblinking eyes.

Hampton turned back to Hannah. "Am I finished now?"

"You are," Hannah said, snapping her book shut. "The door to the hospital you worked at is up and running. It's yours when you are ready."

Hampton nodded her thanks, first to Hannah and then to Cas. All were silent as she made her way to the door. In Heaven, wings were not necessary for instantaneous travel, so her walking was more out of courtesy and respect than anything else.

She paused before she opened the door, turning to Cas, eyes still wide and unblinking, persona still carefully perfect.

"There are not many unforgivable things, Castiel."

And then she was gone.

Hannah let out a huff of air. "Hampton was always irritatingly cryptic."

Cas didn't answer, mulling over her words. "What do you believe she meant?"

Hannah looked over, pen poised over the paper. "Oh, I do not know. She will come around if she meant harm by it, Cas." She paused for a moment and bent back to the paper. "Heaven knows, I did. All those other Angels that you led when we were on earth did."

"Out of necessity," Cas agreed self-deprecatingly.

"Out of respect," Hannah corrected, closing the notepad and placing it and the pen onto the desk. "Wrong doing is not resolute. It can be persuaded to move. You lament and pay penance even now, Cas. Even after you paid your dues and saved us."

Cas stared at her, hard. He gave her a small smile. "You are a good friend, Hannah."

She smiled, a little self-pleased, a blush curling on her cheeks. "Thank you. Despite what you may think, or what to believe, you are a good leader."

"But it's not forever," Cas said, a little too quickly.

"Of course not," Hannah agreed, her haste obvious as well.

"How's the hunt for the tablet going?" Cas asked, changing the subject awkwardly.

If Hannah sensed the uncomfortableness of the situation, it didn't show. "Not well. We have Angels on earth tracking it down, but the world is immense without our wings."

Cas looked concerned. "How much have you searched?"

Hannah cleared her throat and clenched her jaw. "We've nearly finished Tokyo."

"Where did you start?"

Hannah raised an eyebrow and sighed. "Tokyo."

"Damn it," Cas cursed.

There was a knock on the door, and Cas took to calling the next angel in for their interview.

"Ajax," the Angel introduced itself, walking into the room after Cas had allowed it entrance. "Applying for passage between heaven and Earth."

* * *

There were no other cases, and the bunker seemed like a better place to wait around and see if anything else popped up than  a rundown motel.

Dean was sitting in the kitchen when Sam came to find him, shuffling nervously in. Dean glanced up as Sam entered and offered a coffee cup.

"Drink?"

"Sure," Sam replied, sitting across from Dean on the breakfast bar. The kitchen was steaming with the preparations for the evenings meal, a reason for Dean to hide himself away in the kitchen and a reason for Sam to hunker down in the library.

Dean span the mug over the countertop and Sam caught it, leaving it before himself to cool.

"Want anything else?" Dean offered, grabbing a biscuit for himself out of the jar that always seemed to be empty whenever Sam went to inspect it.

"Nah, I'm good," Sam said. His fingers clenched around the handle to the mug and he was glad he had it to distract himself. He cleared his throat. "Hey, uh, Dean, we gotta tall about what Crowley meant."

"After the crossroads demon fiasco?" Dean asked, passing Sam a biscuit anyway. "Sure. Shoot."

"Well, what do you think he meant?" Sam asked. Dean could see how surprised he was that his brother was so keen to talk about it. Truthfully, Dean _was_ worried. He hadn't ceased being worried, and since Death's visit, everything was pushed into hyper drive.

"A full set, right?" Dean guessed. "So, he was talkin' about your soul...so maybe he has other souls kept down in Hell?"

"Like the other hunter's souls?" Sam frowned. He made a bemused face before taking a drink of his coffee. "Well, that would make sense."

"Wait, what?"

"Remember, uh, Heaven?" Sam asked, and Dean nodded, over vigorously.

"Oh sure, yeah. The whole literal trip down memory lane."

"Sure," Sam allowed, sides of his mouth trying to smile. But he clamped it down with the seriousness of the conversation. "The only souls we saw were Pamela's and Ash's. The only souls we _know_ are in Heaven are Pamela, Ash and Bobby, assuming that Bobby made it to Heaven."

"They could have made it by now," Dean said, but that wouldn't make sense. Why would Crowley say anything if the souls had escaped. Perhaps it had something to do with what Death had been saying about the recent flimsiness of the veil, but Dean didn't think so. if the Harvelle's and all the rest had freed themselves, then Crowley wouldn't have brought it up in the first place.

Sam followed his line of thought exactly. "I mean, I guess...demons lie."

Not Crowley though. Crowley hadn't lied to them for years. He'd omitted truths and done heinous things, but after being nearly cured, he'd been close to them, he'd been _truthful_.

But some of these omissions, especially one like this, was enough to ignite a full blown hatred for the demon.

"What I don't get," Sam said finally. "Is why he mentioned them at all. I mean, now we _know_."

"He might have thought we were too dumb to get it," Dean suggested.

Sam shook his head. "No way. What else could it have been?"

"Gee, I don't know Sam," Dean almost snapped, all for just cutting their losses and moving to make the next punch land. "Does it matter?"

"It's just, he gives my soul back, he saves an underling demon, he apologises for sending us to Abaddon, and now this..." Sam trailed off, waving his hands to try and enunciate his point. "Seriously dude, you don't think there's something a little off about this?"

"Probably," Dean shrugged. "I just don't really care."

* * *

Cas finally shed his responsibilities one day to Romeo. The angel was almost _too_ excited to be deciding on who was to stay in Heaven and who would have the freedom to move between. Of all the host, though, Cas trusted his judgement only second to Hannah and a thousand miles ahead of his own. Hannah was his friend, and he needed her to come with him to where he was going next. He needed her soft frown and clever judgement.

He needed her support.

Cas hadn't been able to visit Robert Singer's heaven since he had arrived. Administrative duties had kept him on permanent lock down, and now that things were beginning to even out, Cas finally had the time to visit him.

Bobby's house was different in Heaven than it was on earth. It was cleaner, and the paint job was better. Cas assumed that this was what the house looked like before Bobby's wife had died, but upon entering, there were moment's captured in photographs that told of more recent times.

"Hello?"

Cas edged through the door slowly, making his way to the study. He looked up and almost felt affronted when he didn't see the Devils Trap. The house almost seemed naked without it, even with how ridiculous it would be to have something meant for demons in a plane of existence purely meant for rest.

The man came out down the stairs, looking curious and almost pale. He walked slowly, so that Cas and Hannah had to wait patiently for him to hit the bottom of the stairs.

"Cas?"

"Hello, Bobby," Cas greeted warmly, itching to stride forward and hug the man.

Bobby looked flabbergasted, looking first at Hannah, and then back to Cas again. "I mean, holy hell, _Cas_."

"Hello," Cas greeted again. "I apologise for not coming sooner. I was not dead this time."

Bobby barked a laugh. "Well, that's a relief. Who's the lady friend?"

"I am Hannah," she greeted. "Castiel's second in command."

Bobby frowned at that. "Ash thought he heard somethin' big was goin' down in the centre, but not even he could see what was happenin'. You rulin' heaven now or something?"

"Or something," Cas admonished vaguely. "Now, I have a question. Time is of the essence."

"Shoot," Bobby said, and Cas tried not to feel bad when Bobby tried not to look crestfallen that he wasn't staying for longer.

"The Harvelle's," Cas said. "Do you know where they are?"

Bobby's face turned grave. "You lookin' for 'em?"

"Yes," Hannah supplied. "Dean prayed to Castiel. He said that Crowley may have mentioned that he was holding them."

Bobby went quiet. "He might be. They certainly ain't here, or, if they are, Ash can't find 'em."

Cas turned to Hannah. "We could go to their Heaven. They might just be there and dormant."

Hannah seemed to think it was as pointless as Cas did, but she nodded anyway.

She made to move out of the house, but before she could, Bobby caught Cas's arm. "Wait."

Cas turned back nervously. "Uh, yes?"

Bobby wasn't a man who had a way with words. He was all bravado and tough love on the outside, and soft and warm on the in. He could have asked Cas a thousand things, he could have asked half a dozen big truths and millions of smaller ones. He could have asked how the world was doing, he could have asked if anyone had started building on where his home had burnt down.

But Cas knew what he'd ask before he said it.

"The boys," his voice was gruff. "Are they good? Are they alright?"

"Sam and Dean have been through much since you last saw them," Cas answered him truthfully. "But now they are ok, and miss you and all the others in Heaven very much."

Bobby nodded, tearing his eyes away.

Then he called out again. "Cas, while you're looking, make sure you get Rufus home, ok?"

"Your friend?" Cas asked, before stepping out the door to join Hannah.

Bobby nodded. "Can't find him either. Can't find anyone."

"I will look for them," Cas promised. And he meant it.

* * *

Even as their wings were gone on Earth, not so was it in Heaven. This was their home, they could maintain a constant movement throughout it and never get tired, never find the edge.

After speeding through some alternate layer in the forms they were created in, they arrived back in the forms of the vessels they'd possessed after first coming to earth.

She looked around. "And this is the Harvelle heaven?"

"Yes," Cas said shortly, looking around.

Hannah breathed out, eyes wide with appreciation. "It's beautiful."

Cas agreed with that. It was very aesthetically pleasing, with Autumn leaves ushering in the air, and a faint scent of daffodil's and springtime despite the obvious difference in seasons.

The young girl, blonde and in pigtails that ran passed didn't own the Heaven though, she was a memory. She giggled as she dashed passed, looking up at someone unseen and dashing off, little girl arms pumping as she ran.

But Hannah sensed it as well. "It's empty."

"I know," Cas agreed, tense. He looked around, for surely it couldn't have been, surely they would be here somewhere. Because it wasn't just that he needed to know for Dean, it wasn't that he needed to know for the sake of the earth, he wanted to know for _himself_. They were his friends, and he missed them.

And this Heaven was empty.

Hannah frowned, Cas could tell she was frustrated with the little information they'd been given, by Dean and by Bobby. "So they're claimed by Hell? Or are they trapped on earth?"

"But Hell _cannot_ take those that it has no claim to," Cas murmured, almost ignoring Hannah as he turned, erratic in a circle, reaching out, trying to get a sense that souls had ever been here. "That is the law, and that is the way that this system works."

"So perhaps they are trapped as spirits on earth," Hannah suggested airily. "When did they die? Might they just be caught up in the wrongness of this past year?"

"Perhaps," Cas considered, turning to face her.

Hannah closed her eyes. "Jo and Ellen, right? I can sense them, their essence in this Heaven. Mother Daughter soul mates are rare."

"The rarest," Cas agreed, his voice was barely above a whisper. "The most precious."

"They were dear to you," Hannah stated. Cas gave her credit where it was due, she'd learnt to read him well, in those long days, those eternities trying to save Heaven, keep it up right.

"They were dear to all who knew them," Cas supplied, and Hannah decided that that would have to do.

"Who else do we need to check?"

"Rufus, the Winchester's, Caleb Fisher, Jim Murphy, Deanna Campbell..." Cas grimaced. "It's an extensive list."

"And they are?"

"Hunter's who have died in the past 100 years," Cas relayed, and he reached for Hannah's hand. She took it and they atomised, rushing through the heavens to find the next one they needed to check.

Rufus's log cabin in the mountains was empty, Caleb's villa down by the seaside was abandoned. Mary Winchester's vineyard was without grapes and dying, John Winchester's suburban home had a layer of dust that coated everything. Jim Murphy's church rang empty with forgotten bells, Isaac had the looped memory of a little girl playing with her mother, Tamara, untouched.

"They're not _anywhere_ ," Cas finally gasped, arriving back in the centre of Heaven. He and Hannah claimed an empty room. His hands shook and his face was white and clammy. Hannah, while not as affected, was far quieter than usual. Her blue eyes had lost their spark, her lips drained to the colour of her skin.

"Abandoned heavens," Hannah murmured. She held her arms around herself. "Empty homes."

"It does make you wonder," Cas said, and when he smiled, it was genuine. "How Heavens are formed. Is it with birth or death? Or do they always exist, the perfect amount of Heavens for the extent of God's plan?"

"Perhaps now is not the time for a discussion on philosophy," Hannah said mildly, coming to grips with the situation faster than Cas. She turned all business, snapping him into a working mindset. If he dwelled too long on what that sort of loneliness felt like, he'd go mad. "Do the Winchester's know?"

"Perhaps we should speak to one last person," Cas suggested. "Ash. He'll know. he knows more about Heaven than I do."

"I'm sure that that was an exaggeration," Hannah said. "But if you're sure, we should go now." Her face softened with compassion and the arms that still surrounded her dropped slightly, hand to elbow, hand to waist. "The brothers deserve to know that we suspect they are right."

* * *

Cas and Hannah stole a car.

Hannah looked like she was about to faint at the illegality of the situation, and Cas would have laughed, had they not needed to get to the impala as soon as possible. The portal to the graveyard near the Bunker had been a saviour, both touching down inside it seconds after seeing Ash.

* * *

_"Ash," Cas greeted. "You don't know me—"_

_"Sure I do," the man interrupted, slamming his computer shut. "You're Sam and Dean's friend, right?"_

_* * *_

"Quickly," Hannah breathed, looking around. Cas felt bad about stealing from a mourner, but there was nothing else for it. He was sure that if he explained the situation, they'd let him take the car anyway.

The door popped and Cas climbed into the driver's seat. Hannah copied his lead, throwing herself into the passenger's seat.

"Seatbelt," Cas reminded her.

And she buckled in.

* * *

_"I got a theory or two," Ash responded. "Nothing concrete yet. Why?"_

_Hannah shared a surprised look with Cas. They'd hoped for something, but they could have never dreamt of this._

_"Sam and Dean are tracking down a potential lead," Cas said, not wanting to inspire any assumptions by the computer technician in front of him. "Why don't you tell me what you think, and I'll see if any match."_

_* * *_

"Drive carefully," Hannah ordered, holding onto the armrest as Cas gunned it for the Bunker. He had a vague recollection of where it was, but he was certain that he would find the way. He _had_ to find the way.

"I'll get you there in one piece," Cas assured her. "Don't worry."

* * *

_Ash was bemused, but he told them. "Ok, so Bobby came up here, and he said he could remember maybe 30 years of hell, when he was down there for a year earth time. That means he must have been somewhere else, right? I mean, the theories a decade to a month."_

_"Right," Cas agreed. "And Crowley wiped his memory?"_

_"Somethin' like that," Ash agreed. Then he shrugged. "I dunno though. I mean, he coulda just been repressin' it or something. Sorry Cassie, it's not much to go on."_

_"That's ok," Hannah piped in. "Thank you so much, Ash."_

* * *

Cas swerved around the corner and Hannah's hands went white around where they were clutching the seatbelt. She looked like she'd be yelling at him if she weren't too scared to move and stuff up the polarity of the car or something.

"We're nearly there," Cas assured her. Then it struck him that he'd have his phone. He pushed his hand into his pocket and threw the device at Hannah. "Quick, call them. Tell them we're on our way. If they ask, just say we'll tell them when we get there."

Hannah complied, moving through the phone quickly, finding a number and pressing onto it.

Cas could hear the dial turns, and his heart flipped when he heard the crackle of someone picking up.

"Dean? It's Hannah."

There was a murmuring.

Hannah's voice was less worried and more snarky when she spoke next. "The _angel_."

Cas hid a smile and focused on the road.

"Cas and I."

More murmuring.

"News of the souls."

She cut off more softened words with a harsh, "We'll tell you everything when we get there."

There was another undercurrent of dialogue.

She turned to Cas. "How far away are we?"

* * *

_"No problem," Ash said. "You take care of those souls, yeah? They're precious."_

_"Do you miss Ellen and Jo too?" Hannah guessed._

_Ash frowned. "Uh, yeah. How'd you know—"_

_"Castiel said that all who meet them love them very much."_

_Ash turned, surprised to Cas. "You knew Jo and Ellen?"_

_Cas confirmed it with a small, birdlike dip of his head._

_Ash smiled fondly, probably at the memories of the time spent in a bar much like the one that was his heaven. "Yeah. They were hard people to hate."_

* * *

"We're about five minutes."

Hannah relayed the information before snapping the phone off. She caught a gasp in her throat as he swerved around another corner.

" _Careful_!"

* * *

As soon as Cas and Hannah knocked on the door of the Bunker, Dean and Sam were ready for them. Sam ran up to meet them, boots hitting the stairs heavily as he did. Dean followed after him, allowing enough room that Cas and Hannah would be able to fit passed them if the need called for it.

Sam pulled open the door and Hannah and Cas walked out, coming onto the balcony.

"Hey," Sam said quickly.

Hannah looked a little breathless, but unchanged since the last time Dean had seen her. Cas was similar, he had his new trench coat and suit on and was looking worriedly from each brother to the next.

"Hello, Sam," Cas greeted.

Hannah stood stock still, gazing at him, before pulling him in for a hug.

Dean realised that this was the first moment she had to see him alive since the Abaddon chapter and he watched, an ache deep and turning in his chest, as understanding, Sam hugged her back. It was the desperate ache of two friends. It was love and loss and life. Between and angel, and a human.

She drew back and looked at the ground, Sam watching her almost expressionlessly, but Dean saw how touched his brother was. Hannah smoothed hair back from in front of her hair and idly picked at the fringe of her vessel's hair. She was embarrassed. If she'd just looked up, just seen Sam's tiny, warm smile, she would've learnt that she didn't have to be.

That Sam was never anything but thankful.

And never anything but forgiving.

"What's happened?" Sam asked, his voice was a little rough.

"You were right," Cas said grimly. "Crowley has souls of high value in hell. He's keeping them somewhere, and we're not sure where."

"Who does he have?" Dean asked, leaning against the railing of the balcony.

"Among others? Your parents, Jo and Ellen, Rufus, Pastor Jim Murphy," Cas let his sentence cast off. "And who knows how many others."

"Because they're Hunters?" Sam guessed. He nodded working through the information. "That's why he said 'full set'."

"Right," Cas agreed. Then he looked at Sam intently. Dean didn't like that look, not directed at Sam, not one bit. "Sam, what do you remember from dying?"

Sam stood up straighter and pulled away. "I, uh, nothing much. Just a moment before I was _not_."

"What was that?"

Sam shook his head helplessly. "White light."

Cas looked unconvinced, but Sam swore that that was all he could remember.

Cas turned to Hannah. "His mind has been wiped. We should trigger it back."

Hannah, who'd overcome her embarrassment, nodded resolutely and extended her hand, poising her fingers over Sam's head.

Sam took a surprised step back. "Hey, hey!"

"Cas!" Dean snapped, moving in. "Erased, maybe, or _repressed_. What the hell are you doing?"

"We need to know for sure where Crowley is keeping the souls," Cas said, as if it were obvious. "Sam knows, he just isn't aware yet."

"Cas," Sam said, his voice weak.

"No way," Dean growled. Sam took up an irritated stance and Dean decided to change his tune. "You gotta _ask_ him first, man."

"Wait, what?" Sam asked, turning to his brother in surprise.

"There's _no time_ , Dean," Cas insisted. "If Ash's theory is correct—"

"Ash?" Sam asked.

"Then what Sam remembers might be _imperative_ to getting the Hunters' souls back!"

" _Yes_ doesn't take all that long to say," Dean countered.

"Sam," Cas implored, turning to the younger Winchester. "If the memories are too much, I'll wipe them again, but we _have_ to know."

Hannah watched it all unfold a little unsurely, her hand had fallen to her side, and the fingers that would have pressed onto Sam's forehead now twitched against each other.

"Sorry Cas," Dean snapped. "I just remember the _last_ time you tried to bring memories back."

"Dean," Sam cut him off, and he looked a little shocked that Dean had delved into that particular area of their history. Dean crumbled a little as he realised that he'd gone too far. But that didn't stop him crossing his arms over in an angry snap and glaring at Cas while Sam slowly looked from Hannah to Cas and then to Dean.

Where he paused. His eyes were probing and thankful. _It's ok. I'm ok._

"It's ok," Sam allowed, moving unconsciously back to where he'd been standing before. Before he closed his eyes, he looked across at Dean, who was fighting bitter unhappiness.

_It's what I want._

Sam closed his eyes, and Hannah pressed the tips of her fingers ever-so-gently to the centre of his forehead.


	7. Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean head out to the middle of nowhere to scout out a potential entrance for them to get into hell to find the souls taken by Crowley. They meet a new acquaintance, who is more than she seems.

As it is in Heaven, so must it be in Hell.

In Heaven, the portals to earth is like stepping out of an elevator, like taking a deep breath or submerging yourself in water. It was easy. It was a caress. It was a stairway, built just for them.

Hell was Heaven's polar opposite in many ways, and this was no exception. Crawling out of the pit was an expanse of sharp edges and ruined stones, burning fiery ash that clogged through the air that you breathed as you reached for the stars, clinging to the side of a barren cliff face.

There was a reason demons came to earth. There was a reason that they forsook the only home they could remember for the only home they'd ever known.

And it there was something to be said that the climb was worth the world that awaited them. Or perhaps that it escaped the world that they were subjected to.

There was a reason exorcism was a punishment. There was a _reason_ demons clasped to the lives they created on earth.

And there was a reason that doorways, like the ones that Dean and Sam were investigating, were so heavily guarded.

" _Shit_ ," Sam cursed, ducking behind the tree stump, squishing tightly to Dean so that they both fit in the hiding space.

Dean turned. All he could make out of his brother in the gloom of the woods was the profile of his face and the glint in his eyes from the moon pushing through the canopy overhead.

The woods they were in were removed from people and civilisation as a whole. It'd taken nearly a day of hiking to reach it, and even then it'd been night before they found the exact spot where the entrance to hell was located.

"How many?" Dean asked, whispering, not daring to copy Sam and turn to scope out what they were up against.

Dean felt Sam shrug against his shoulder. His voice was soothing and low. "I couldn't tell."

"Guess," Dean snapped shortly, his voice hovering at a hiss.

"Five, six," Sam answered shortly. "Too many."

"Smelt us yet?"

Sam shook his head. "Wind's on our side. We should be ok for a few more minutes at least."

Dean growled, frustrated. "What the hell are we supposed to do?"

"We could call Cas?" Sam half suggested.

Dean shook his head quickly. "No way, there's no time. Anyway, you know as well as I do, there aren't any portals to Heaven around here. Too dangerous to be so close to Hell."

Sam look tempted to turn around and scope out the Hell Hounds guarding the doorway, but he contained it, breathing heavily, frustrated out of his nose.

"You good?" Dean asked instinctively, and winced when Sam's forehead creased with annoyance.

"I'm _fine_ ," Sam snapped. Hannah unleashing the memories of what had happened to Sam while he was with Crowley wasn't the reason his brother had fallen unconscious after relating, breezily, all that Crowley had told him and all that he'd seen. Hannah had dug a little too deep, knocked down the walls a little too indelicately, and so all the pain that he'd witnessed while dead and trapped with all the other screaming ghosts had come back, full throttle.

It wasn't the Cage, of course, and the pain was easily siphoned off and healed, but it didn't stop the memories of his time taking a desperate root. The very worst ones were wrenched out with only sensations left, and Hannah had grimaced as she paid her penance, absorbing the memories.

Sam had told her that she hadn't had to do it, when he came to and saw how pale and shaking she was. Dean, on the other hand, wasn't sure if he forgave her and Cas just yet.

Because Sam's fingers trembled as he reached for Ruby's knife. They stilled as his knuckles clenched around it, but Dean had seen.

Dean closed his eyes, took a sharp breath and stowed it away for future conversation, or future leverage.

"Ok," Sam murmured. "What's the plan?"

"Run?" Dean asked back softly, not joking in the slightest. Because, honestly, Hell Hounds, his favourite. And the two of them vs. _one_ hell hound was bad enough, but cutting them down to them vs. _five_ was pushing it too far out of reasonability.

Sam made a face in the gloom, and Dean only recognised the slope of his shoulders as Sam's face turned to him and was completely cut off by shadow. "Seriously, we can't go back now."

Dean swallowed the building panic in his chest and forced himself to deliver the line seamlessly. "I don't wanna see you _dead_ again, ok?"

Sam was silent for a beat. "Ok."

"We set up camp—" Sam groaned quietly, slumping down in the dirt. Dean shared his sentiment about camping, but it was either that or try and get into Hell without back up. "—we get Cas, Hannah, maybe some other angels to help us out, and then we scope out Hell."

"We wouldn't be able to find our way through anyway," Sam rationalised, and Dean nearly sighed with relief as his brother started to come on side.

"Exactly," Dean agreed. "Anyway, scouting mission, right?"

"Right," Sam whispered, nodding his head, body shifting next to Dean as he sat up a little straighter, legs pushing themselves into a better position to sneak off. "How far away do we need to get?"

"Five miles?" Dean guessed.

Sam let out another groan.

"Hey, I don't like it anymore than you, Princess."

The wind pushed back Sam's hair, and both brothers froze. It was an unassuming breeze, sneaking passed the trees and along the hill, creeping along with the clouds, masking the ground with whisks of air from a different end of the forest.

A low growl pattered along, like a line of dominos, each of the Hounds catching onto their scent at a different moment.

Sam was frozen next to Dean, and Dean could feel his brothers heart pumping, mismatched to his.

" _Shit_ ," he swore, and before the Hounds had a chance to fully comprehend what they were smelling, he was pushing Sam up, grabbing onto his shoulder and forcing him in front of him, shoving through the woods after Sam as they _ran_ , as fast as they could, as far as they could. Their packs lay forgotten onto the ground, left so that they wouldn't hinder the boys as they moved.

"Left, left, left!" Sam ordered, running to the right, and because Dean needed to trust his brother, because this was just another thing they needed to work on, he turned left.

And he regretted it.

He sprinted on, the roots in the darkness leapt up before he could aptly see where he needed to place his feet, but there was no room to slow down his pace. Every footfall felt redundant, every pant, every strain from his lungs. The growling reverberated throughout the forest and hissed at the back of his neck. He didn't know if the hounds were behind him, whether they were in front, whether they'd moved at all. All he knew was that if he turned to see if they were following, they would be. And in the time it took to yell out and turn back, he'd already be dead.

A paw hit the ground with a thud behind him and he melted on the speed, feeling his chest burn and his legs _snap_ with the energy and the adrenalin but not _daring_ to slow. Because you couldn't outrun Hell Hounds when they were coming after you. If you sold your soul, that was probably the way you were going to go. But these Hounds weren't collecting him and Sam, they were guarding their home.

And so _maybe_ if they got far away enough, and _maybe_ if the Hounds weren't smart enough to recognise them, and _maybe_ if he could maintain the speed that was drilling holes through his lungs and crunching against his ankles every time he took a misjudged step, then they could get away, survive this.

His breathing strained again as he thought of Sam.

Beside him and ahead of him the darkness was complete, and the only sense he had of depth was the trees that swerved in front of him and the bloodcurdling calls of the pack as they raced after the two brothers.

Dean heard a huff and a paw behind him and sped up again, but this time his legs weren't burning, they were thudding with exhaustion, deadening and hardening, and the arms that had been spread to help him balance over the terrain were close by his sides, pressing into his rib cage as he fought to keep his pace up. His breathing was ragged and inconsistent, and the pressure was turning his eyes fuzzy and unreliable. He took precious moments out of the race as he edged around a tree he hadn't seen before it was almost too late.

"DEAN!"

Dean's breath was clouded with the cold as he and Sam ran into each other. Sam was breathing as heavily as he, his knife a little soiled by the black blood of a Hell Hound.

"You get one?" Dean demanded through gasps as they stopped to see each other. They'd sprinted for nearly half a mile, and Dean had to pray that it was enough. The howls still echoed throughout the landscape, but there was no breath on the back of his neck, or any growling in the air across from him. Perhaps they _had_ done it, perhaps it had been enough.

"Yeah," Sam gasped back, wiping his knife on his pants. He gestured to a scratch on his neck and a rip along the waist of his shirt. "Nearly took me out."

"You need to go on more runs," Dean advised, professing his sweaty and overheated, yet untouched body.

Sam huffed a laugh, bemused, pushing his damp hair back with his free hand. "Right, yeah, thanks for that. Because you're such a Michael Phelps."

"Dude, Michael Phelps is a _swimmer_."

Sam looked offended. "Obviously. I was just testing you."

Dean nodded. " _Right_."

A howl echoed out, answered by three more. Sam stilled very quickly next to him, and Dean reached out to grab onto Sam's shirt as the sound chattered down his spine. Sam didn't protest, leaning into the warmth as another howl echoed out, this time closer.

"So, uh, do Hell Hounds howl when they've given up a hunt, or when they've trapped their prey?" Dean asked quickly, glancing around him as the world went quiet, the growls that had been near constant since they'd arrived cut deathly short.

"No idea," Sam breathed back, jerking his head around, strung and vigilant.

Dean shook his head. "Man, I hate Hell Hounds."

"Should we run?" Sam ignored him, looking the way they'd came, and then to the area of the park they'd been running to.

"Just a moment," Dean hesitated, listening out.

"I really think running would be a good idea," Sam insisted, still jerking around, eyes flicking from one corner to the other.

"Dammit Sam, just a second."

"Dean!" Sam snapped. "I don't know about you, but I'd like to make that five mile radius pretty _fucking soon_."

"We gotta see how far they'll go from the entrance," Dean stated, adamant, refusing to move even as Sam tugged on his arm. "How far are we?"

Sam sighed and dropped Dean arm, no less vigilant, but turning his gait from flight to a defensive position. "About one kilometre."

"American, thanks Canada."

"Two thirds of a mile," Sam recited. "Or there about."

A growl picked up again, followed by another, and another. The pack seemed to be everywhere, in the trees, in the dirt. They flowed along the earth with the wind that had betrayed them.

But more importantly, they sounded from where they were running to.

"Not far enough," Dean said. He tugged Sam back to where they'd originally been running to. " _Fuck_."

"We can't—"

"We _have_ to," Dean led the way through the undergrowth, Sam allowing himself to be dragged alone. "Sam, we gotta—"

The growling space of air in front of them told them exactly where one of the four remaining Hell Hounds was located. Dean ignored it, not letting Sam stop as he altered his course slightly, aiming away from the Hound as he slammed through the woods.

"Dean!"

" _Run_!"

Sam shut up and obliged, sprinting to catch up to Dean, so that they were side by side as they forced their way through the trees.

"A path!" Sam managed between catches of air.

Dean thrilled at their good fortune and sprinted down it, the trail was far from the path that they'd started on and followed for the start of the day, but it pointed in the direction they were going, and now it was just sprinting, just pouring energy into their limbs as they made their way to safety.

They stopped another few minutes down the road, Sam leaning over and panting as they listened again for the tell tale signs of the hunt nearby.

"You think we've lost 'em?" Sam managed, knife pressed against his thigh where his hands were poised, supporting him as he looked up to Dean. Dean was standing stoically, trying to take in deep breaths in the stage that they'd have to run again.

The silence was less eerie here, and the usual sounds of nature came to haunt them. The bustle in the undergrowth was probably a rat, the call from the trees a nocturnal bird, and as displeasing as they were, they had no threat to the brothers lives.

Dean turned to Sam, and then crushed heavily against the ground.

The snarl of the Hell Hound forced itself into his brain, thrumming with the shock and the redness of falling to the ground, the dog squashing him beneath it.

Dean heard Sam let out a strangled cry of despair, and then the weight was gone, but the noise wasn't.

Dean gave himself two heartbeats to get over the hot wetness on his chest and the needles smashed into his ribs, before he forced himself up.

Sam was fighting the dog, but as valiant as his little brother was, the Hound was stronger. They tossed once before Sam was thrown to the ground, the Hound ripping down his brothers chest. Sam screamed in pain, blood throbbing in his mouth as the cuts etched themselves down his chest.

Dean felt his fingers begin to shake and everything went quiet. The world didn't matter, the other Hell Hounds didn't matter, because Sam was _dying_.

Sammy, no, _no and no and nothing and don't you dare leave me, you son of a bitch._

Sam's hand flexed out and dropped the knife. Dean flashed down and grabbed it, throwing the Hell Hound off with all that he had, tossing it to the ground and feeling for the throat. With an expert swing, he sliced through its neck, the knife giving through the muscle and tissue and bone. Black blood spurted out in horrifying lumps, coating the ground where it lay to die.

Dean ignored it and dived for Sam, who was still breathing heavily, face paling as the blood loss got to him.

" _No_ ," Dean insisted, as if it might change anything. "No, Sam, please, _no_."

Sam just gasped, more blood making its way to the corners of his mouth. Death's warning came back to Dean and his eyes welled up in frustration. Because if that was it, then this was the end...the end of _everything_.

Sam's hand weakly came up to Dean's arm and his eyes said what his voice couldn't. _It's gonna be ok._

But, oh God please, not like this. Never like this. Sam had promised, promised they'd grow old. Promised that his passing would be natural and normal, and that Dean would survive though it. This pain, the pain that felt all too like barbed wire cutting into flesh...there was no way to survive this. There was _no way to survive this._

"Place pressure on the wound," a voice ordered.

Dean would have started at the voice, but the new comer and anything else the world could throw at him held hardly anything over him anymore.

" _Hey_ ," it snapped, and Dean looked up to see a woman standing next to him. She had blonde hair and a hiking pack on her back. She tossed it down and squatted next to him, kneeling next to Sam. "Pressure, on the wound, _now_."

Dean followed her orders blindly, reaching for the deepest part of Sam's wounds and pushing his hands hard down on his brothers chest. Blood welled beneath his fingers, throbbing and warm. The ripped shirt Sam had been wearing was mostly in tatters now, from when he had first taken out a hell hound to now.

"Good," she said, unzipping her pack and reaching in. She turned her eye harshly to Dean. " _Pressure._ "

"Sam..."

"Your friend needs help," she said, her voice was constant and reliable, comforting in its order. "Pressure."

Dean focused all his attention on the blood, pushing down as hard as he could. "The...blood, he's lost too much—"

"Hey, focus, ok?" she said, bringing him back to reality. She had pulled out some gauze and a dangerous looking entanglement of tubes.

"What's his blood type?"

"Ah," Dean shook himself. "I don't...we never found out."

The woman nodded her head slowly. Then she gave a grim smile. "Good thing I'm O- right?"

"Wait, what?"

"You need to focus," she reminded him, pulling out a pair of syringes, where they were held in containers that looked like they were keeping the needles clean. "You gotta keep the pressure up, or there isn't anything I can do."

Dean exchanged the dominant hand, relying entirely on the left as he reached for the gauze. In the darkness it took a moment for him to locate it, and the shaking that struck tremors through his body didn't help. But he grabbed it, dots of Sam's blood scattering among the dirt. The bleeding, thank whatever entity was watching over them, was a lot worse than the wound actually was. It would have killed him if it had been allowed to bleed out, but the shallowed end of the claw marks were already clotting.

"Who are you?" Dean asked, somewhat dazed, and only now starting to understand the oddity of a random woman coming across them so deep into the woods, just _happening_ to have the medical supplies they needed to keep Sam going.

"I'm a hiker," she answered easily, not looking up as she prepped hers and Sam's arm for needles.

Dean felt proper suspicions start to surmount as the situation with Sam started to unfold at a bearable pace. "At this time of the night?"

The woman shot him a glance. "Same goes to you, Adonis."

Dean shut up at that, and focused everything he had on staunching the bleeding. The woman glanced up, hissed and shook her head. "No, no, I was wrong. You're going to have to stitch it up."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a throwaway needle and thread. Dean nearly breathed a sigh of relief, this he could deal with, this he had dealt with before.

"Where?" Dean looked down at the chest he was barely holding together.

"14 along the left, 15 in the middle and then..." she paused and scrutinised the wound. "14 on the right."

"That doesn't seem like much," Dean protested.

The woman shrugged. "The wound at the other end isn't as deep."

Sam murmured indecipherably and Dean winced at the pain he was about to be causing. After the woman had finished sterilising the needle, she passed it to Dean carefully, black thread already cast through the loop at the top.

"You right?"

"Yeah," Dean said, and willed, with everything he had, with the pained moaning of his brother as he and a stranger fought for his life, for his fingers to stop shaking. And then, ignoring his brothers keen of pain as the needle entered his skin, proceeded to follow the ladies advice.

She had finished wiping the skin of both her and Sam's inner arms and was soothing Sam's arm down as she looked for a vein. His stillness was becoming more and more necessary, but more and more frightening. He gasped with pain when Dean pressed on with sewing closed the wounds, (wounds that he could have _sworn_ were worse than they looked at that moment), but other than that, there was nothing.

Terrifying, deadly stillness.

"When you're finished with that," she said, holding both needles ready for the transfusion. "I'll need your help."

Dean nodded and went about sewing up the last of the wound, marvelling at how much better they looked than when he had first seen them.

"Hey," she passed him a bottle of alcohol. He didn't check the label, and just went to pour it over Sam's chest. Sam hissed and seized as the stinging liquid killed off the chance of infection, but Dean had to look away as a tear of pain managed its way through Sam's lashes. Dean placed the gauze on his brothers wound, hoping that it and the alcohol would be enough to stave off fever and illness.

They both sat for a bit, as alcohol mixed with blood ran off Sam's body like tiny creeks. Dean nearly swayed, the exertion from the running and the constant beating of his heart while Sam had been sick _exhausting_ him.

"Ok, quickly," she said, moving expertly, fingers swift as he inserted both needles in, first hers into a vein on the inside of her left elbow, and then his onto the inside of his right. Taking a deep breath she passed him an old fashioned looking pump. "I need you to pull it, and don't stop until I tell you, ok?"

"Right," Dean nodded, a little dazed. He picked up the contraption and stared at it a little unsurely. It looked like something that came out of a middle ages horror film torture scene. "Wait, seriously?"

The woman looked irritable, and even with the light, he found himself able to read her face better. She had a regal face, high cheekbones and slightly upturned eyes. Her hair dusted over a pair of pointedly arched eyebrows that were pinched together in annoyance. " _Yes_. Now, hurry up."

"Seriously, when was this issued?" Dean asked, still distracted, slowly pulling the lever and watching the blood pool from the woman, who was watching it grimly, to his brother, who was lying still, but who had his eyes open, blinking every now and again, lost in the fogginess of all his pain.

"1066," she deadpanned.

Dean looked up at her and paused for a moment.

"Keep going! My _goodness_."

"Sorry," Dean muttered, pulling back the pump. Now all that was left was Sam's harsh breaths against the air and the whiz of the pump as it was pulled up and down.

"Ok," she said, her voice was not weak, she didn't sound scared, she was just able to watch calmly as her blood went down a plastic tube and into someone else. "That should be enough."

Dean paused and she helped him disable it. He sat up obligingly, waiting for her to tell him something else to do.

She looked at him, her face was warm, but tired. "Go comfort your friend," she ordered, laying out her equipment as she washed it and started to put it away. "I'll be with you in a moment."

Dean moved slowly to Sam's head and placed a hand on his little brothers forehead. He eased his hand back so that it rested comfortingly on the hairline and looked down at Sam, giving him something to focus on.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean smiled. "How you doing?"

Sam tried to swallow, before he blinked lazily at Dean. "'ore."

"Yeah, buddy, I know," Dean moved his hand from his brothers head, resting it on the sternum, just above where the Hell Hound had sunk it's claws. "You're all good now, right?"

Sam murmured agreement, eyes not leaving Dean.

"That's good," the woman said, and Dean looked across at her, confused. "Keep him awake, give him something to focus on. We're not out of the woods yet."

"Will I need to stay up to monitor him?" Dean asked, his voice was weirdly calm.

The woman gave him a small smile. "Would you be able to sleep anyway if I said no?"

Dean acknowledged her point with a tilt of the head, before looking back down to Sam. He clenched his hand, because as much as he wanted to thank her, and trust her, and believe that she'd done everything out of the goodness of her heart, she was in the middle of nowhere, just as he needed her.

Not only in the middle of nowhere either, in the middle of nowhere near a gate to Hell.

He looked up at her, all semblance of companionship gone. If she noticed the change of tone when she glanced at him between stowing everything back into her pack, she didn't say.

"Who are you?"

The woman paused. Her hand stilled on a pair of scissors, before she continued, packing it up into her bag. "I told you. I'm a hiker."

"A hiker, who just happens to be a doctor, who just happens to be here when we needed you most," Dean spelt out, watching her understand why he couldn't trust her.

She raised her eyebrows. "Ever heard the phrase 'sometimes good things just happen'?"

"Sure I have. Just never believed it."

The woman pursed her lips. "I'm Sarah," she said finally. "Sarah Adrpan."

"Hiking doctor extraordinaire," Dean finished sarcastically.

"What were _you_ doing?" she demanded, and it wasn't lost on Dean how defensive she was becoming. "Because I'm not exactly sure how your brother ended up like that. It's not any animal I've ever seen."

"Bear attack," Dean lied easily. "How did you know we were brothers?"

"I'm a doctor," she said, equally as easily. "I know what grieving families look like. Bears don't come this far south. Try again."

"They do if I say they do," Dean said, smiling tightly.

They looked at each other, hard.

Then finally, Sarah spoke. "My campsite isn't far from here. If you follow me, I can get you and your brother some food and somewhere semi-safe to recover before we call into the hospital tomorrow."

"You've given me next to no reason to trust you," Dean spat.

Sarah gave him a derisive look. "Right. Next time remind me to unveil my entire life story _and_ save your brother's life next time I want to earn your trust. And I don't even know your name."

Dean spoke instinctively. "Harry."

She shook her head. "Nope. Not gonna get me that easily."

Dean clenched his jaw, frustrated. "Ed."

She cocked her head and waited, folding her arms.

Dean sighed. "Dean. Winchester. This is my brother, Sam."

She smiled prettily. "Bingo."

She stood and hoisted her pack onto her back. Sarah looked down at the two of them. "Coming, or what?"

Dean hesitated, hand still connected to Sam's humming chest. The cold of the night was really starting to set in, and without their clothes (there was no _way_ he was getting any closer to the gates than he had to), there was a scary chance that he or Sam might catch a fever, or with Sam as weak as he was, something worse.

Dean nodded slowly. His life always had been the choice between two evils.

"Cool," Sarah strode around them to the direction where her camp was. It wasn't in the opposite direction of the Gates, but it was as damn close as it was going to get, and Dean was relieved for that fact. She nodded to Sam, who moaned and shivered, leaning unconsciously into Dean and his brothers warmth. "You need help with him?"

"I can carry him," Dean answered, almost too softly. He bent down after standing, carefully picking Sam up, making his hold as gentle as possible, trying not to pull any stitches. "I'll carry him."

* * *

Sam woke to the sound of someone softly humming. As he twisted to feel out his surroundings without opening his eyes, he nearly gasped with the pain that shot from his chest. He stilled for a moment and concentrated on breathing, eyes still firmly pressed shut. He was so distracted by the pain, that he doesn't notice that the singing had stopped.

"Sam?"

As Sam opened his eyes and looks up at Dean, all of the previous nights activities came rushing back at him. He remembered crashing through the undergrowth, remembered fighting off one Hell Hound and then running into Dean. He remembered being surrounded, tackling the hell hound off Dean, and then the Hound tearing into him, it's massive claws scratching down his chest.

He thought he remembered dying.

"Dean?" he answered, his voice bleary. He made a move to sit up and see where he was, but Dean's hands on his shoulders kept him down. He felt that he was wearing some flannel, and looking at his brother, he saw that it was the one that Dean had been wearing the night before. Dean had opted out for the usual layers and was managing with just a grey undershirt.

"Whoa, whoa, hey," Dean said, easing him back onto his back. "You gotta chill dude."

"What happened?" Sam asked, looking around himself and seeing that Dean was hunched over on the ground next to him, he who was curled up in a sleeping bag. They were in a tent, a nice one at that, and somewhere Sam thought he could hear a fire crackling.

"A super nice, totally sus lady came and saved your hide," Dean informed him. "Sarah."

"She just happened to be passing by?" Sam asked, his voice still weak. Then he grimaced, pulling a hand out of his sleeping bag and rubbing his face. "What happened to the Hell Hounds?"

"Well, that's just it, isn't it?" Dean asked, sitting down more comfortably and dropping his voice. "They just scattered. Disappeared. I dunno if it was some supernatural mojo, or if the mutt we killed was just out scouting, trying to get us by itself."

"Wait, so do I like," Sam grimaced, pausing. "Do I owe her my life now or something?"

Dean shrugged, and the night kept up was written across his face as his eyes moved downward. "Who knows. Point is, she's got food and she gave you blood, and she saved your life. Plus, she said something about hospital."

Sam felt sulky. "Do I _have_ to go to hospital? I don't even feel that bad."

"Yeah, you have to go to hospital," Dean frowned.

"Give it a day?" Sam pleaded. "Hospitals are a mess for us, Dean. We go to the portal in the cemetery and we ask Cas to come down for five seconds and heal me up if I'm not passable by then."

Dean hesitated. " _Fine_. But only because I want to keep my eye on Doctor lady."

"Thanks," Sam said, ignoring Dean's look of concern as he pushed himself into sitting position. He moved gingerly, scared of ruining the stitches he vaguely remembered getting last night, standing slowly, forced to hunch over with the lowness of the ceiling.

"You right?" Dean asked, hovering over him as he pushed through the tent doors.

"Fine," Sam assured, stepping over the threshold, bare feet seizing as he brought them down onto the cold ground. The campsite was deserted apart from Dean and him, and apart from the expertly set up fire and the strange things, there was no proof of the mysterious lady at all.

"You're up early," a voice announced from behind them, and Sam turned to see a woman walking into the campsite. A bundle of sticks covered her face, but he could see that she was blonde and lithe, with concentrated muscles along her arms and good, strong legs.

"Uh, yeah," Sam agreed, looking at the sun and trying to remember what Bobby had taught him and Dean about what it had to do with time.

"Early riser," Dean agreed.

She dumped the sticks by a pile of wood next to the tent and stuck out her hand. She had similar signs of exhaustion on her face, and Sam felt bad that he'd kept them both up, even going as far as kicking Sarah out of her own bed. The fact that she might or might not be evil and now have a claim over his soul notwithstanding, there was an easy twinge of guilt at the dark bruises under her eyes.

Sam shook it as she introduced herself. "Hey, I'm Sarah. Your brother's probably already filled you in, but I helped save you from that _bear_ ," she said it like he didn't believe it, "attack last night."

"Uh yeah, thanks," Sam smiled. "Who knew they came so far South?"

Sarah snorted with laughter and bent over the fire, poking a few sticks by the blaze, building up a mound of coals. "So, from what I can gather, hospital's a no?"

"That's right," Sam said, cutting Dean off before he could say anything.

"Right," Sarah said, body tightening with irritation. "As annoying as that is, it's also expected. Breakfast?"

Dean met Sam's eye, and tilted his head.

Sam snapped back to Sarah. "Uh, I'm a little thirsty, actually."

"Oh yeah, same," Sarah said, as if she hadn't realised. She walked over to where the canisters were and tipped herself and Sam a glass. She handed it to him and he took a careful sip.

Neither brother breathed as Sarah started to drink, and took it down easily.

Sam had barely seen Dean put the crucifix away in time.

"You want some, Dean?" Sarah asked, bending over the fire as she put something brown and canned into a billy to cook.

"Vomit breakfast?"

"You're having that whether you want to or not. I meant water."

"Oh no," Dean smiled angelically. "I'm good."

* * *

"Leviathan?" Sam suggested as he picked up another piece of wood from the ground. Sarah had suggested they start to leave at 10, filling her thermos with hot tea, enough to keep Sam on his toes. He was beginning to feel woozy, but the ridiculous speed of his recovery wasn't lost on him either.

He knew he should be bedridden, perhaps in danger of slipping into a coma. So what had changed? How much had Sarah really done?

"Don't think so," Dean frowned, slotting another piece of wood into his pile.

The trees shook green and light as the day broke out over them. The blue of the sky overhead broke through the canopy and alit along the ground. Trees that had seemed ob obtrusive while running in the dead of night no lofted around them, smiling towards the heavens.

"Shapeshifter?"

"We're really digging the bottom of the barrel now, aren't we?" Dean murmured.

"Cas says all the angels who fell to Earth are accounted for," Sam said. "She passed the holy water test...I honestly don't know what's left."

" _All_ the angels?" Dean asked drily. "Even the ones who were killed?"

Sam shot him a glare. "You _know_ what I mean."

"There's gotta be some left," Dean said quietly. "Some who just wanted to stay."

"If she was an angel, she would have just healed me outright," Sam argued.

"Unless she wanted to hide it," Dean countered.

"Well, how would she know human medical treatment anyway?"

"She could be possessing an actual doctor," Dean replied, as if it were obvious.

"Fine," Sam ran a hand through his hair. "How do you test for angel-ness?"

"Do an angel test."

"Which is?" Sam demanded.

Dean smiled. "Say the name 'Castiel', see how they react."

Sam paused for a moment, hefting the wood further up his arms before frowning in agreement. "Wow, that would actually work."

* * *

"What was that shop again?" Dean asked, as he and Sam sat together, watching Sarah as she took down the tent. Dean had offered to help, but after proving himself to be more of a hindrance than a help, she'd ordered him to take a seat next to Sam.

"The one with the cheeses?" Sam guessed, and Dean nodded his affirmation. "Oh...uh, Casanova's? Cassiopeia's...?"

"Something like that," Dean encouraged.

"Castiel's?"

They both turned to watch Sarah. She was utterly unperturbed.

Sam shoved his spoon into his food and Dean took a moody bite of his breakfast.

* * *

Sarah was satisfied with their half-true explanation for not having their bags, that being that they dropped them when they were running from the bear.

On the first leg of the trip, she spent most of it lecturing them on bears, and how exactly you were supposed to react when you found one in the forest.

Half an hour in, they found a trail, and Sam felt his heart beat settle down and his worry lessen as signs of civilisation like this began to immerge.

As Sarah took a time out to do her business off to the side of the track, Sam turned to Dean, worried.

"Dean, seriously, something's not right."

"You think I don't know that?" Dean demanded, gesturing to where Sarah's pack was. "Look, I'm not much of a hiker, but I swear, if I'm not lost, there was no trial here in the park."

"Ok, so while that's admittedly really creepy," Sam said, looking around to make sure that Sarah wasn't listening. "I'm healing _really_ quickly."

Dean blinked. "Thanks, Sam. I'll be sure to add that to our list of 'non-problems'."

"You _know_ what I mean," Sam rolled his eyes. "There's no way I should even be _talking_ right now. I just had a really major _blood_ transfusion. Not to mention, by the end of tomorrow, I think we'll be ready to take the stitches out."

"No way," Dean frowned.

"That's what I'm _saying_."

A disturbance in the bushes caught them to silence as Sarah announced her presence.

She smiled up at them and picked her pack back up. "Ready to go?"

They exchanged looks after nodding, hurrying after her as she walked swiftly down the path.

"How much further have we got to go?" Dean asked, hurrying to catch up with her.

"Couple of hours if we can keep this pace," she answered briskly, looking up to the sky and tilting her head as she read the time. "We've still got plenty of daylight."

"You don't think we're going a bit _too_ briskly?" Dean frowned, body language pointedly referring to Sam, who fought an urge to roll his eyes. The urge dwindled as Sam realised Dean was giving Sarah the opportunity to acknowledge how quickly Sam was healing.

Sarah's face fell and she liberally decreased her stride length and speed. "I'm so sorry Sam, you've soldiered on so well, I totally forgot."

"Pretty massive thing to forget," Dean muttered, making no move to disguise his suspicions.

"Are you still playing at that?" Sarah asked, tiredly. "Because I can tell you, camping permit or not, I'm leaving you out here to tango with the bears if you think I'm so untrustworthy."

"Camping permit," Dean echoed.

" _Camping permit_ ," Sarah agreed.

* * *

Sarah announced midday about an hour and a half into their walk, and then stopped for lunch an hour or so later. She slowed down, looking around them as they moved further from the wilder depths of the forest. Here the greenery was more spread out, and Dean didn't think he'd ever been so happy to see a chocolate wrapper littered onto the ground than he was in that moment.

"You'll have to bear with me," she apologised, dumping her bag down and pulling a pile of dry crackers out of the top compartment of his pack. "I only really brought enough for one."

"I'm fine," Sam said quickly.

"No, you're healing," Sarah raised her eyebrows. She handed him the largest portion, and Dean tried to quell the deep surge of kinsman ship he felt with her at that moment. She turned to Dean, professing the last of what she had. "Ok, do you want the dehydrated grapes—"

Dean frowned. "Uh, sultanas?"

"Or dry crackers?"

Sam nibbled onto the side of the sandwich he'd been handled and watched them with guilty eyes.

"Sultana's," Dean said immediately, making a face at the dry biscuits she was carrying.

Sarah sighed with relief. "Thank god. I _hate_ sultana's. The only good thing to come out of grapes is nothing."

"Wine," Dean corrected.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "No, nothing."

"Ok, you're all wrong," Sam insisted. "Non alcoholic grape juice is amazing."

"What are you, a pubescent boy?" Dean demanded. "You're all crazy."

Sarah gave them both disparaging looks. "I can't believe I saved the life of someone who likes _grapes_."

"I can't believe all the people who don't like grapes haven't been eliminated by natural selection," Dean stated, shoving half the sultana's into his mouth at once.

"Close your mouth when you're eating," Sam reminded him.

Dean swallowed and then shoved another handful in without breaking eye contact.

* * *

"Uh, Sarah!" Dean called from where he was standing next to Sam.

After 2:30 had rolled around, their conversation mainly consisted of Dean telling Sam he needed rest, and Sam insisting that he didn't. Sam might have been healing quickly, but the constant exercise was getting to him. His face was clammy and when Dean felt his hands, they were cold and damp, like he was picking up a fever. Dean had insisted that Sam show him his stitches to make sure that they weren't getting infected, and after Sarah had inspected them, she told them both that it was more likely that Sam was just tired out.

And so whenever Dean deemed it necessary, they took a break.

Sarah looked back at the call and nodded, already knowing what they were going to say. Other than worry for his brother, the majority of Dean's thoughts had been on the woman, hoping that she wasn't evil. But the secrets that were kept in their world were far from happy surprises, and their track record was always the worst of the worst.

They walked off to the side of the road, and Sam, pale, sat down, head between his legs. Dean squatted next to him and supported his back so that the slouching wouldn't force his wound to burst open.

"Sorry," he murmured, mouth drooping like he was feeling sick.

"Hey, you ain't got anything to apologise for," Dean said. "You saved my ass with the h—bear, didn't you?"

Sam smiled and let out a few loose laughs. "Sure did."

Sarah was keeping her respectful distance, but Dean could see she was curious. He didn't blame her. If she was as she said, and had just _happened_ to be where she was, then it _would_ look weird. Two brothers lost in the woods, totally reliant on her to get back home. Dean had been hoping on the back end that he had no idea how to get to anywhere in the woods that she was trustworthy, even when every finely honed instinct told him the otherwise.

"Ok," Sam said, a million miles before he was clearly ready to leave. "Ok, I'm good. Let's go."

"You sure?" Dean asked, standing and helping Sam to his feet, where he swayed slightly, before catching himself and nodding.

"Yeah, I feel good. I'm fine."

"Well, you're not fine," Sarah piped in drily. "But we _do_ have to go."

"How much further do we have?" Dean asked, following her gaze to the sky. She'd done it a lot, and Dean was jealous that she'd honed the skill of reading the sun like a clock. He'd always wanted to be able to do that.

"At this pace, three hours," she said, biting her lip. "Two and half if we push."

"I'm all for pushing," Sam interjected. "No, don't look at me like that, Dean. The earlier we get back, the earlier I can rest for good."

"Fine, but I'm not carrying you."

Sam's lips upturned into a reluctant smile.

Sarah seemed invigorated by the rest and shrugged her pack into a more comfortable position. "Alright. We good to go?"

Sam nodded, determined, and Dean let his gaze linger on Sam, watching him walk with all the strength he had left, before following along.

He stayed close to his brother, close enough that every time their elbows touched, he was assuring Sam, that no matter what, he was here.

The sun called over there head and dripped through the trees, slow and warm, like honey. Dean and Sam walked in time.

* * *

The trail ended, and before them, of all things, was a _car park._ They'd only been inside the forest for a little under a day and a half, but looking out to that sort of civilisation hurt Sam's eyes. All he saw was comfort and a bed to lie down in. The Impala was parked where they left her, black and glossy as ever, shining in the late afternoon sun.

Before they got there Sarah stopped, sighed, and turned to face them.

Dean and Sam exchanged a look.

"Ok, here's the god honest truth," Sarah started. She stared down at her feet. Then she looked up at them with a wry smile. "Holy water? Really?"

Sam tensed, he forced himself not to meet Dean's eye, but he had to let his brother know that if it came to it, he'd be no help in a fight. If Sarah had led them _all this way_ just to kill them. Mere metres from their own car.

"You saw that, huh?" Dean asked weakly, unconsciously shuffling a little closer to Sam.

"Guessed, more," Sarah said, still faintly amused. "Thought that if I had the water, you guys would stop treating me like a demon."

"Well, that's one way to do it," Dean said.

"So, if you're not a demon, who are you?" Sam asked, confused. "Why'd you help me?"

"Because you're the Winchester's," Sarah said faintly. "And I need your help."

"Before we go on," Dean interrupted, and Sam was vaguely aware that the only reason he was still standing was because Dean had caught onto his arm. "Can we find somewhere to sit?"

Sarah blinked in surprised. "Yeah, oh God, sorry. Here." She led the brothers to a public table, where she pushed off a pile of fast food remains and fussed around as Dean lowered Sam into the seat. Sam felt his stitches strain as he caved down, leaning on his elbows, but yet again, Dean gave his back support, sitting beside him and holding his back up. Slowly, Sarah moved to sit opposite them.

There was a silence as Sarah fiddled with her fingers, her pack dropped to the grass at the end of the table.

Dean cleared his throat. "So."

"I'm a hunter," Sarah explained, relaxing as she saw them sink a little with thankfulness that she was human. Only human. "My son made a deal with a crossroads demon unknowingly, and there's talk..."

She met Sam's sensitive, probing eyes before tucking her arms around herself. "There's talk that you and Crowley are close."

"That talk would be more or less right." Now that she'd admitted what she really was, Dean was a lot more toward with his comfort. His hand hadn't left Sam, bit he was leaning towards her. "What do you need us to do?"

"I need you to convince him to let my son out of his deal," Sarah said, looking from one brother to the next with a hopeful gleam in her eyes.

Sam watched her, still dizzy, still swaying. "How old was he? When he made the deal?"

Sarah swallowed and looked like she was forcing the smile on her face. "Three."

"Three," Sam repeated. He felt sick, and it had nothing to do with the way the stitches pulled on his skin or how weak he felt, like he wouldn't be able to ever run again, ever pick up a gun again, never save himself or Dean again. This sickness came from the threatened life of an innocent. He tried to picture what would happen if a soul so innocent was damned to hell. Jesus, the kid would only be 13 when it's time came due. "Don't worry Sarah, we'll talk to him."

Her eyes brightened and she clasped her hands into fists atop the table. "Wait, really?"

"Sure, we'll summon him," Dean offered. Then he frowned. "Not that he has to come."

Sarah just looked excited, and hopeful, and the happiness was contagious. Sam felt himself smiling across the table at her, as she looked from one to the other, heart brimming with satisfaction.

"Can I come?" Sarah asked.

Sam looked at Dean and Dean answered for the two of them. "Ah, well, we don't think so. He might not show if you're here as well."

Sarah nodded. "Fair enough. There's a campers lodge a mile or so down the road. They have showers and rooms and a cheap diner out the front. I'll be there getting a bite to eat if you need me."

"Thanks Sarah," Sam smiled. "Bye."

She hopped off the seat, picking up her bag. She beamed at them before she strode off.

* * *

"Why am I still..." Sam clenched his jaw and cut himself off. Dean was laying down the last of the spell to call Crowley. They'd hiked a little back into the woods. Not far enough that they couldn't see the impala, but far enough that if someone looked up and saw them, there'd be nothing obviously untoward happening.

"What?" Dean asked, picking up the matches from where he'd left them, next to the rest of their emergency alchemist tools.

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. Don't worry, nothing."

"Right," Dean said, letting it slide and pulling a match out. He struck it against the side of the box and let it fall into the brass bowl. With a bang the chemicals inside it exploded, little drabs of fire charring the grass the bowl was sitting on.

"Hello, Boys," Crowley greeted, his usual monotone greeting no less grating than usual. "What can I do for you? Nice to notice you haven't upped the decor too much this time."

It had been Sam's idea not to draw out a devils trap. He insisted that Crowley was more likely to come if he wouldn't end up captured. Dean agreed with him on that, but it didn't mean he wanted to give the demon any chance of leverage over them.

"Cut the crap, Crowley, we're not here to chat," Dean said, almost bored.

"Obviously," Crowley informed them drily. "Now, what seems to be the issue, boys? The band broken up again? I notice John Lennon isn't here to keep the Yellow Submarine plodding along."

"Cas is busy with Heaven, Crowley," Sam said, watching the demon warily and curiously. "We need to stop a deal."

Crowley frowned. "Can't be done. Moose, you of all people should know...there's no way to reverse a demon deal."

"We didn't know _you_ before," Sam said evenly.

Crowley frowned. "You alright, Sam? You look a little sick."

Sam blanched. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Can we _please_ bring this conversation back to Sarah," Dean sighed, frustrated.

"Sure," Crowley allowed. "Who's Sarah?"

"The mother of one of the souls you've claimed," Dean spat. Crowley frowned, as if trying to recollect, so Dean decided to jog his memory. "3 years old? Had no idea what he was doing? Ring a bell?"

"No, actually," Crowley said, raising his eyebrow. "The youngest children souls are normally sold from are 10, 11 at least. No demon would make a deal with anyone younger." Crowley sniffed. "Innocence reeks in the pit."

"I don't believe you," Sam said.

"Whoop dee doo," Crowley muttered.

Dean gestured to talk to Sam off from where Crowley was standing.

"You know you're not _actually_ holding me here, right?"

Dean's voice was low and urgent. "Sam, go get Sarah. We need her."

"What, why?"

"Because of collateral damage," Dean said, as if it were obvious.

Sam shook head and shrugged in confusion. "So? He's a _demon_."

"A demon who was addicted to human blood, and just so _happened_ to give your soul back, no strings attached," Dean reminded him. "Look, it can't hurt. Maybe she'll have a picture to prompt his memory."

Sam stared at him, before sighing and shuffling off.

"Where's Sam going?"

"Away," Dean replied, and Sam didn't look behind his shoulder as they kept talking.

* * *

"Love what you've done with the place, by the way," Crowley said, nodding to Dean, impressed.

"Excuse me?"

"The manscaping," Crowley said, smiling as Dean glared, mostly out of confusion. "The Mark. It's all faded and _not there_. It's glorious."

"Oh," Dean said, rubbing his arm self consciously. "Right."

Crowley smiled and tapped his finger on his thigh.

Dean rubbed his arm again. "Right."

* * *

Just as she'd said, the diner was a mile or so down the road. Sam was still feeling strong on his feet when he got there, but he knew he'd have to take a break before he pushed off for making it back to Dean and Crowley. Sam knew Dean thought he'd given his little brother the lesser of two evils, but all the walking he'd done today was already taking its toll. It was true that if the situation arose, there'd be no way he could fight off Crowley, but watching a bored demon would have taken far less effort.

And from the sense memory he had of his time in Crowley's 'care', he didn't think that the demon would try anything anyway.

The bell trilled overhead as he pushed the door open. The effort it took wasn't undisguisable, so he just moulded a smile and nodded at the waitress, bored behind the counter, who nodded back and smiled.

"What can I do you for, sugar?" She asked, putting her wash cloth down and smiling at Sam. He couldn't stand for much longer, so, as smoothly as he could, he edged onto one of the seats along the bar.

"Oh, I'm just looking for a friend," Sam said.

"You needa borrow the phone?" the waitress asked. She gestured behind her. "We got one in the—"

"No, no, she should be here now," Sam said, looking around and feeling that sense of wrongness he'd had since Sarah had told them she was a hunter stir in the pit of his stomach. "Are there any other rooms?"

"Other than the hotel rooms?" the waitress asked, frowning. "No. No there ain't. I might have seen her, though. When'd you think she was gonna be here?"

"Now," Sam said, voice small.

"Oh honey," the waitress picked up his hand and squeezed it comfortingly. "We been empty since 12. It ain't ever a nice feelin' to be stood up."

And then Sam could place the odd feeling, he didn't know why he couldn't before, it seemed so obvious to him now. The deadened rot at the base of his belly had been warning him of _deceit_. He had no idea how he knew it, or why, all he knew was that he had to find Sarah, and quickly.

Because whatever she was, it wasn't human. And she wasn't a hunter.

"Thanks," he said shortly, standing up unsteadily from the table. He pressed on and walked as quickly as he dared out the front door, the bell an irritation, the wind and the grass and the air...she'd _tricked_ them.

"Dean," he said, as soon as Dean had picked up. "She's not there. She never was."

" _What_?" Dean demanded, and Sam heard muttered curses. " _Shit, do I tell Crowley to go_?"

"Probably for the best," Sam said, and waited impatiently against a post that might have once been integral in the times of horses and cabs, but now it served as nothing more than a reminder of a time long ago.

" _I'm back, and he's left. Pissed, which isn't new. What do you mean she's gone?_ "

"Never even arrived at the diner," Sam said, speaking as quickly as possible. "She lied Dean. She's not a hunter."

" _Thanks, Horatio_."

"No, seriously," Sam said. "She's not human. Me healing so quickly, there was no way she was going to be able to hold out on us so long. That's why she was so evasive about who she was."

" _She needed time to think up a reasonable cover story_ ," Dean cursed. Sam heard the door of the impala creak open and the slotting of the keys into the ignition. The engine cranked and Sam smiled faintly as he heard the car purr.

"She must have thought we'd figure it out," Sam said. "How long did she take to say her name was Sarah?"

" _Weirdly long_ ," Dean admitted. " _Though, you know, we were saving your life at the time._ "

"Right," Sam said. "Come pick me up."

" _Where are you_?"

"The diner where she said she'd be," Sam answered quickly. "See you in a few."

The line fell dead and he tucked his phone into his pocket. He didn't care if it irritated Dean, he closed his eyes, reached out his mind, and started to pray.

_I pray to Cas, hey man, we really need your help and we haven't got much time. There's something out there, and we don't know what it is. It's smart and it's powerful, and it's nothing like we've ever seen before._

_Uh thanks._

_How do you sign off on one of these things?_

_Amen?_

* * *

They'd ended up getting a room in the motel where the camper often went after a few hard weeks of intense outdoor living, so despite those people's obvious hardiness, the rooms were a lot nicer than the ones they were used to.

Sam had taken the opportunity to take a shower and check on his cuts. There was no sign of inflammation or infection, which, rather than appeased him, just made him more concerned. How much had she done? What was her cost? What was so important that it couldn't ever be told?

As he came out of the bathroom, he heard Dean on the phone.

"Thanks Hannah, yeah, bye."

Dean switched the phone off and threw it onto the bed. As he turned, Sam saw how exhausted he was.

"What's happening?" Sam asked, running the towel over his head once more before hanging it on the doorway to the bathroom.

"Hannah's on her way," Dean said, looking at Sam begrudgingly. "Apparently, someone prayed to Cas."

"Yeah," Sam said, sitting down on the edge of hit bed. "That was me. We needed help."

"We would have found her."

Sam bit back a scowl and kept his head. "C'mon, Dean. We don't even know what she is. All we know is that she doesn't seem threatening yet."

"Um, I don't know if you noticed, but being that evasive puts you on the suspects list," Dean said, sitting on the bed next to Sam and wrapping his face in his hands.

Sam was silent for a moment. "When's Hannah getting here?"

"Closest portal was five hours away."

"Get some sleep," Sam ordered, standing up and stretching. "I'll stay up."

"No," Dean said, miffed. "You're sick, Sam."

"You're _exhausted,_ Dean."

They locked in a silent battle of wills, and Dean finally lay flat back on his back, conceding defeat.

Sam took the seat by the table. He looked up to say something else, but Dean was already slumbering, his breaths deep and even, face serene.

Sam paused, before walking over as carefully as he could, making sure he didn't pull any stitches as he shoved Dean up to the pillow and took the doona from his bed and placed it over Dean, turning away when it was done and sinking back into the chair he'd vacated.

He idly picked at the row of terrible books that the motel had lain out on the bookshelf and picked one up to leaf through.

It was going to be a long five hours.

* * *

"You're in pain," was the first thing Hannah said when she saw Sam. Without a word, she reached up and touched him on the forehead. He blinked and felt the blue rush through him, sealing up the wounds. He felt the pressure of the stitches ease and the weakness he'd been feeling dissolve. The night was complete behind Hannah. The car she must have stolen was parked smoothly next to the Impala and she looked as she always did, with her dark hair and bright blue eyes.

"Wow," Sam blinked, finally looking around and _not_ feeling like he was being smashed about on a boat.

"You're welcome," Hannah said simply, stepping passed him and into the room. She stopped short when she saw Dean asleep on his bed.

"Ah, yeah, just let him sleep," Sam said, dropping his voice and hoping she'd get the hint.

She did. "I could revive him and replenish his wakefulness," she whispered.

Sam shook his head decisively. "No, this is better." He looked down at his watch. "We'll give him an hour."

Hannah looked unsure. "I was under the impression that this was a mission of utmost importance."

"It is," Sam said, but he still held out a chair for her, and she sank down into it slowly, unsure. "But, uh, look, we've got a lot to go over before we can think about finding her. So, ask me questions, and we'll find some way of locating her. Right?"

"Anything can be summoned," Hannah agreed. Then she straightened. "Definitely not a demon."

"Unless she was very high ranking," Sam said. "The only demons who weren't affected by holy water was Azazel and Lilith. Yellow and white eyes."

"Darkened Children of light," Hannah murmured.

Sam frowned. "Is that their official name?"

Hannah blushed. "Uh, no. It's just..."

"You like poetry," Sam finished, and tried not to smile.

Hannah nodded self consciously. When she shook herself back into business, she still had a small smile and the apples of her cheeks were still dusted with red.

"What was her reaction to sunlight?"

* * *

In the end, Dean only got 20 out of the 60 minutes that Sam had been hoping for. His brother was just pissed that he hadn't been woken when Hannah had first arrived but got over it quickly enough.

"So, what are we thinking?" Dean managed after half a cup of coffee.

"There's nothing," Hannah admitted. "Nothing we've been through, known or myth."

"We thought she might be an angel," Dean said, and Sam felt disgruntled that they were bringing this up again.

"Yeah, but we _told_ her Cas's name, and she didn't react."

Hannah glanced between them. "Wait, that was your test? Castiel's name?"

Sam suddenly felt very inadequate. "Uh, yeah. That was it."

But Hannah seemed impressed. "Good job. There are not many angels who would be impartial on judgement of him."

Dean looked at her for a beat. "I honestly don't know whether that's a good or bad thing."

"It's both," Sam said smartly.

All three stopped what they were doing when there was a knock at the door.

Dean pulled the gun out from under his jeans and moved to it. He looked out and when he looked back, Sam knew who it was.

"It's her," Sam whispered to Hannah, but she wasn't moving. She was just staring, as though she was seeing something other than them. Like she was entrapped.

"Dean!" Sam called, before his brother opened the door. "She's doing something to Hannah—"

"No, no she's not," Hannah denied, but her voice was weak. "She's not."

Dean looked quickly at Sam before wrenching the door open. Everyone stood to attention when Sarah walked in.

"Hello," she said, holding herself with more confidence than she had been. With that light, with the darkness still complete behind her, she looked ethereal. She looked complete. She looked inhuman.

"Sarah," Sam greeted, nodding.

She turned to him and smiled. "Sam, it's good to see that you are entirely well."

Suddenly, Hannah fell to one knee, bending her head and fixing her eyes to the floor.

"Hanael," she said, and the way she said it caused Dean and Sam to exchange looks across the room. "Stand, please."

Hannah obliged quickly, still refusing to even _look_ at the being across from her.

"I suppose I have to apologise," she said, standing up straight. "You know of the angels, I'm assuming? You'll have to forgive my ignorance," she smiled faintly. "Everything I know about the recent events are from memories that have been gifted to me."

Sam and Dean both nodded, perplexed.

She took a deep breath. "Do you know of the archangels?"

"Sure," Dean spoke up. "Raphael, Michael and Gabriel."

She frowned. "No, there were seven. Four were thrown to earth by their brothers not long after God disappeared. I thought..." She closed her eyes as if scanning her memories. "No," she murmured to herself. "How could I have overlooked that?"

"Overlooked what?" Sam asked, feeling as though he had some inkling, for some reason. Like he could borrow her thoughts.

"They're myth now," she murmured. "Forgotten by choice."

"What, you're saying that _you're_ an archangel?" Dean demanded.

"Lost for many, many millennia, but yes," Sarah said, standing up straight and looking both boys in the eye. "I apologise for lying when you asked what I was, but it was necessary. You consorted with demons and hated angelkind. I could not know if you were trustworthy." She levelled her gaze at both of them. "I am Sariel. Healer of the seven archangels, created by God to serve humanity."

Neither brother said anything, so she spoke again.

"And I think I have something that you are looking for."

The speechlessness of the room was not impeded on when she reached into her bag and pulled something out.

Both Sam and Dean stilled when they recognised what it was.

It was the angel tablet. 


	8. Heaven's Seventh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean go up to the fluffy white Aviary in the sky to begin their journey to hell to free the souls unjustly held there.

"I'm sorry, come again?" Dean had his arms crossed and was glaring fully at her now. He was a step ahead of Sam, all too prepared to jump in and defend his brother.

"I'm the archangel, Sariel," she said dutifully, carefully placing the angel tablet onto the table next to her, where it would remain in the constant back chatter of each person in the rooms mind, a certain nattering of it that couldn't be ignored. "Michael and Raphael threw me, my sister and my two other brothers to earth after we discovered what they were planning."

"When was that?" Dean demanded.

Sariel shrugged. "After Lucifer fell, thousands of years ago. Gabriel had already left by then, terrified of the fighting between Lucifer and Michael. It scared us all, but Gabriel often played mediator, and so it was he who witnessed the truth behind the ferocity. Me and my siblings thought he was simply overreacting, but honestly..." she grimaced. "We were mighty, we were archangels. Nothing but witnessing the worst would send us to earth. And Gabriel always had been a free spirit. Least loved of God and often an outcast in our meetings of war."

"I'm confused though," Sam said suddenly. "I thought that Lucifer was an archangel. I mean, he certainly thought of himself as one."

Sariel tilted her head. "He was certainly an odd angel, created second to Michael and with powers similar to Archangels, powers that only increased in his exile. God sensed Lucifer's wickedness early, and though he had powers to rival us and was Michael's favourite, he was left out, turned away. Not as important as we. I always felt bad for him, but..."

"Not bad enough to do anything," Sam finished bitterly. "Well, good job with that one. Not like it didn't come to bite you on the ass or anything."

Sariel didn't look angry, only tired. "Do not worry Sam, I am just as aware of my part in the fall of Lucifer and the creation of you two as you are. Never a day goes past where I do not wish that I had done something different in those years of peace." Sariel drew into herself and when she continued, her voice was quiet. "We cheered when Michael cast Lucifer into the pit. We thought the worst was over. We thought we had won."

She turned silent and her eyes grew milky with remembering, mouth fiddling with regret.

"But we expressed doubt, you see. And doubt it dangerous for an angel. Unparalleled loyalty is what makes us so strong. We are teams of flying colours. It is crucial everyone know where they stand, instrumental that everyone fly in exact formation."

"So Raphael and Michael kicked you out," Sam finished for her.

Sariel nodded. "Immediately after the Morningstar had fallen, they planned his rise. My brothers and sister and I, we forgot how strong God had made them, forgot how strong, in particular, he'd made Michael. And we paid the price. We fell to Earth and lost our places in Heaven and in the devotion of the rest of the Host."

Sam stiffened his jaw. He'd known that the angels had been planning the apocalyptic rerun for generations, but he had no idea that it had been the _moment_ or so after their brother had fallen, that they decided to press for another one.

How long had they been waiting for Sam and Dean to be born?

There was an undercurrent of sudden self awareness as he realised just how big of an upset his sacrifice had caused.

"It's just, I feel like Gabriel would have mentioned you."

"I've been presumed dead for years," Sariel reminded Sam drily. "I almost wouldn't be surprised if he had forgotten I existed at all."

"What, and you just happened to be living on earth for thousands of years and no one noticed?"

Sariel smoothed her hair pack, something Sam wondered if she did when agitated. "I lost my powers when I fell to earth. I was in the middle of nowhere. I managed to set a life up with the Inuit's of the northern reaches of North America. After a while," she paused and looked down. When she met Sam and Dean's eyes again, her face was hard. "The Knights of Hell would come looking for me. They killed many of the people trying to protect me, and I..." her hands squeezed tight. "I couldn't let that keep happening."

"So, what, you died?" Sam asked, curious now.

"No, they didn't want me to die," she said bitterly. "But they _did_ want something from me. They took my grace. Or more specifically, Abaddon took my grace."

"Then how are you still alive?" Sam asked, recalling how Cas expected to die when he lost his to Metatron's spell. "Without your grace, don't you become human?"

Sariel frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Hannah filled in the blanks. Her voice was full of awe, but steady, so Sam decided that though her words might be biased, they'd be more or less reliable. "An archangels grace is cast into separate pieces inside of them. There is the main part, which is where the true power lies, and then two others." She searched for an explanation. "It's how Gabriel was able to hide for so long, from the ancient deities he conversed with, and the angels who searched for him."

"Right. So you know that Abaddon is dead, right?" Dean asked, looking at Sariel.

"Of course," she replied, looking a little offended. "As practically human, I searched my entire life for Hell and for a way to get my grace back. After a while, I was worried....there aren't many things that can destroy an angels grace. Once created, it exists on until infinity—"

"Law of conservation of mass," Sam said instinctively, and fought the urge to cover his face as Sariel blinked up at him. "Sorry, go on."

"Right, yes. I searched for it for many, many years. I missed many great events, and when I resettled into civilisation after losing track of it for the third time, I could finally become a doctor without too much drama." Sariel settled and her body seemed to have relaxed as neither Sam nor Dean called foul play as she recited her story. "I searched for many years, but Abaddon was smart. She knew I looked, or at least assumed, and it was always hidden to me, yet always calling." Sariel looked almost sickened in remembering all she'd been through to get to where she was. "But with Abaddon's recent death, I managed to outwit her brain dead underlings and find my grace." she smiled. "I was right. There was no harm that could be done to it."

Sam turned to Hannah for an explanation and she spoke. "Archangels are irrefutable. They're obsolete. God created them to be his perfect soldiers, and that they are."

Sariel tilted her head, as if Hannah had gotten most right, except for one tiny, crucial thing. "No, the perfect _weapons_."

All three stiffened and stared as Sariel frowned in confusion. "What?"

"At least she's self aware," Sam whispered to Dean.

"Right," Dean agreed. But then he turned his focus back onto Sariel. "Ok, fine. But why'd you only come now? How long did it take you to find your grace after Abaddon died?"

"Not long," she admitted. "But I had many memories to sort through, many Histories to learn. Many events to admire." She gave Sam and Dean a longer look when she said that, and neither had any qualms about acknowledging that she respected their choice in averting the apocalypse. Dean sometimes wished that they hadn't. Sure, there would have been pain. Pain for everyone and everything. Pain and death on a scale unheard of. But now the world looked no better than it had before, his little brother had suffered for over a century and dick headed angels still moved around like they owned the place.

Sam knew his brother thought like this. It wasn't that he didn't care that he never broached the topic, it was more that a tiny part of him knew that he'd given too much, suffered too much, died too much.

"I was practically comatose for these past few weeks, dreaming through all the things I missed."

"So what, memories were fed to you? You just _watched_ them?" Sam asked, intrigued more than angry now. "And, how'd you find the angel tablet?"

Sariel pursued on her story. "I gathered information on a need to know basis. I learnt a lot about you and your brother, and about the recent animosity between factions of heaven, and factions of Hell." She looked a little sheepish as she looked down to the angel tablet. "Ah, yes, I was wondering when you were going to bring that up."

"Bring it up?" Dean demanded. "It's been missing! Metatron hid it."

"Don't worry," Sariel assured him. "I am fully aware of all that usurper did while he was ruling Heaven and all the angels."

"Is that how you found it?" Sam asked. "You, uh, 'remembered' where it was hidden?"

Sariel looked confused. "I am an archangel."

"And?"

"She sensed it," Hannah supplied, stepping in as translator yet again. "But... it must have been _close_ , was it?"

Sariel nodded, smiling when she understood where the confusion lay. "Yes. It seems that Metatron may have hidden it in a place he was unconsciously drawn to, which was the remains of my power calling out to him. Like Gabriel, I and the other archangels have power on calling legions together. Not to his extent, but perhaps some of my power leaked out, and he followed it."

"And where are the others?" Dean demanded. "Your brothers and sister. The other archangels. What happened to them?"

Sariel's gaze turned cool, and Sam restricted an urge to pull his brother back from her. This was the first time she looked truly put out, looked truly upset. "They all died."

"You're sure?"

"Falling from Heaven is not kind on anyone," Sariel said, jaw still tight, eyes still hard. "And neither are angel blades. Michael and Raphael knew that they must keep hunting us down."

"And you escaped?"

Sariel nodded. "I was always good at hiding. And I was never very vocal. Often in the back of the room, often swaying with the most popular decision. When they couldn't find me, they must have known they'd have bigger things to focus on."

The room fell into contemplative silence.

Sam fiddled with his fingers. All of this was important, of course it was. She was a possibility for taking over Cas's loathed position in Heaven and she was in a position to do it _well_. They knew she felt for humanity, and that she cared for both Sam and Dean despite the fact that they were some of millions, but he couldn't focus on that.

She was powerful. That was obvious enough with the rate he had been healing after the attack. His train of thought was disrupted when a cold truth stole the air from his lungs. "The Hell Hounds...I should have died, shouldn't  I?"

Sariel watched him, tilting her head. "You're worried about Death's claim over yours and Dean's soul?"

Sam inclined his head in a short, affirmative nod. What would it mean if it had somehow messed up the contract? Death was strong enough to overcome the Archangels grace and power, but maybe he hadn't noticed yet. Maybe he _would_.

Sariel smiled. "No need to worry, Sam. My assistance in saving your life was entirely  mortal. Your recovery, however, was where I assisted. And..." she trailed off, looking at Sam with an eagerness he hadn't witnessed before. "You recall that I gave you some of my blood."

"Sure," Sam agreed. Then he paused, and felt Dean's gaze heavy against the side of his face. "I have _angel_ blood in me?"

"It's hardly potent, and will fade," Sariel assured him. "But for a time, tiny fragments of angelic power might push through."

Sam felt ill. This was the demon issue all over again, except opposite. Directly opposite. Not only an angel, but an _archangel_ had given blood so that he might live. He felt that old dread return, that this was leading him down a path he wouldn't be able to get off.

"How long?" Dean demanded, the hash, almost desperate ring to his tone signifying his mind was in a similar place. "Until it disappears? How long?"

Sariel blinked in confusion. "Uh, well...a few days, I assume. I don't understand, this—" she cut herself off, catching the thought, Sam and the other special children's fate and Sam felt a twinge of guilt as her face fell with apology. "Oh, Sam. I'm so sorry. I forgot—"

"Sarah, please, it's ok," Sam assured her, assuaging her fears with a small smile. "It's just a few days. I can deal with that."

Hannah was looking at him with wide eyes, her silence spurred by shock and respect no less apparent as she took him in. Dean was also watching him, but his eyes were far more guarded. They'd come a long way since the night that Sam had freed Lucifer. They'd done a lot, been a lot, suffered a lot. And here they were, on the other side of the coin.

Sam had to wonder what it all meant.

"But, uh, Sariel," Sam said finally, clearing his throat and bringing them back to what he'd initially been considering. The nervousness he'd been feeling snuck up at the back of his throat and dried it considerably, turning it from tight with worry about what Sariel's blood might be doing to him to uncomfortable and breathy. "Could you..." he made a point of not looking at Dean. "What do you know about the Mark of Cain?"

"Sam—" Dean started, but Sariel interrupted him.

"No, no," she said, looking between them curiously. She closed her eyes for a moment before flashing them open, giving Dean an open once over, almost appreciative, but more filled with a worried awe. "Yes, you must have masked it somehow. But Dean, you carry it, do you not? Cain's bloody mark?"

Dean worked his jaw and his silence was answer enough.

Sariel shook her head apologetically. "I cannot remove the mark. It must be passed on to a being the carrier deems worthy. In this case, Dean must find someone, as Cain found him." She paused. "I'm sorry to not be of more help."

Sam's mouth was fully dry now, and the heart that had picked up in hopefulness now thudded empty and painful on his ribcage. "No, it's ok. It's fine."

Sariel smiled, then turned to Hannah. "I apologise to be of inconvenience sister, but I would not like to make a scene when I arrive at heaven. Would you do me the honour of accompanying me to a portal?"

Sam privately expressed that Hannah probably would have squawked with excitement if the situations hadn't been so dire. Instead of freaking out, she simply nodded, burned a curious shade of red and pushed her hair off her shoulders.

"Certainly. I will tell Castiel to expect you."

"You may," Sariel said, looking up to the assumed level of Heaven. "But I suspect he already knows. He is too clever, too careful."

* * *

Dean knew Sam had never really been to Heaven. The time's he had died had probably leant his soul to the skies, but his little brother didn't remember it, so it could hardly count. The Heaven created for them by Zachariah had been full of lies, full of contradictory things designed to tear the two apart and into the patient arms of Lucifer and Michael.

Dean, looking back, was almost offended he'd been lied to so easily. Almost _embarrassed_.

Dean had been up to Cloud 9 though. He'd come up with the first blade in his hand and the Mark Cain had given him burning bright and stark against his arm. Honestly, it hadn't been his best memory, but it wasn't his worst either. Metatron had died, most of the angels he'd come to know under Cas's leadership had survived, and they'd managed to secure heaven with minimal deaths.

It was sort of inspiring, now that he thought about it.

But it didn't matter, because now they stood with Sariel and Hannah beside a phone booth.

The area around them was abandoned, the night still taking over the world like an unbroken frost. The night sky above was clouded and black, a storm was coming, or it had come and was passing. Either way, the street lights were what they relied on to make their way, reflecting in the lights of the car Hannah had stolen.

"C'mon, 99," Dean said, eyebrows raising when he saw the box, smirking to Sam who'd made the same connection as he had. "C.O.N.T.R.O.L wants a word."

"What the hell? I'm not 99," Sam said, slamming his car shut and moving with Dean to meet Hannah and Sariel, who were waiting patiently by the box.

Dean snorted. "Well, I am _definitely_ not."

"Yeah, you're agent K9 because you look like him."

Dean hid his laugh with a scowl. "Strong words, strong words."

"Are you ready?" Sariel asked them, her soft amused smile spelling out that she'd heard what they were talking about. There was something about the archangel that Dean couldn't help liking. She had such a soft way about her, such a smiling, calm exterior that masked such a brilliant interior. She fought for humanity and angel kind alike, and Dean wished that he could have known the other archangels. He wondered if they were more like Lucifer, or more like her.

If they expressed doubt over the wisdom of the apocalypse, they couldn't have been all bad.

"As we'll ever be," Sam smiled.

"Good," Sariel nodded to Hannah, who opened the door to the portal, stepping to the side and awaiting further instruction.

Dean felt a tremor, a twinge, at seeing her so compliant again.

Something jerked at the back of his mind. Something about fish and poetry, something about angels and free will.

Sariel stepped to the side. "Sam, if you'll go with Hannah."

Sam stepped up and took Hannah's hand. They disappeared inside the phone box with a flash of blue. It illuminated the area around them, the black flashing back in a slow burn, light fading from blue to the colourless nightlight.

"Hannah's worried about the car," Sariel informed him, lips twitching in a smile. "She wishes to give it back to the owner."

Dean slipped a smile and glanced back to where the Toyota was parked ashamedly by the curb. "Don't worry, when we get back I'll send out an anonymous tip. They'll know what to do."

"Thanks, Dean," Sariel smiled. She paused before taking his hand, taking a deep breath. "I want to...apologise for not being forward in my actual identity. It was cruel and rude of me, and I'm sorry."

"It's ok—"

"No, it's not," Sariel corrected him. "You put your brother's life in my hands, and I should have been truthful with you. I just...I needed to make sure that you and Sam were trustworthy. You've both done seriously terrible things, but saying that, you've also done seriously _wonderful_ things."

Dean stared at her.

"So, I'm sorry," Sariel concluded awkwardly.

"Ok," Dean said. "But seriously, Sarah, it's fine. I understand. I do. I wouldn't have done any different if I'd been in your shoes."

Sariel tilted her head. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not."

"It is," Dean assured her, grinning.

Sariel rolled her eyes and extended her hand as she and Dean stepped into the phone box. He reiterated, sticking it into hers and with a blue light, they disintegrated, beaming up to Heaven.

* * *

"The _archangel_?" Cas stammered, looking at her. Gathered in Metatron's old office, they made for an odd assortment of people. The Mark of Cain was white and faded on Dean's arm, but that old grief still hummed through his veins as though some sort of poison. Sammy, with angel blood and demon blood and the weight of the world on his hands, stood casually next to Hannah to the side of the room. She was watching it all unfold with wide eyes and Dean had to wonder where she'd come from to here. What she thought her life would be like, one of thousands, another faceless voice in the choir. Then Sariel, her hiking clothes still on, hair tied back into a ponytail. And Cas, face smacked open in awe.

Cas had been busy. Hannah informed them that he was _always_ busy, but he'd felt the celestial shift along with every other being in Heaven when Sariel and Dean touched down, and had cancelled his 12:00 pretty promptly after that.

Sariel smiled. "Apparently."

"Where _were_ you?" Cas asked. "All these years, and we all thought you and the others were a _myth_..." Cas stared at her. "And the angel tablet, as well?"

"Yes," Sariel confirmed. "After Abaddon was killed, locating the grace that was stolen from me became exponentially easier. Then, with my rediscovery, I sensed the angel tablet." Sariel frowned, pausing before going on. "I am sorry for what horrors Metatron has wrought in my absence. It was undue of me. I should have worked harder, done more sooner. I was one of the leaders of Heaven, and I let it down."

"And, you can't fly?" Cas asked hopefully.

But his face cracked as she shook her head. "No, and while that surprised me at the time, I assumed it was because the demons had done something to my grace. I had long though it was unable to be tarnished by Hell, by _anything_." Sariel's lips slipped into a wry smile. But there was no humour, and an ancient bitterness stung at her eyes. "I suppose I was half wrong."

"Did you know?" Cas asked, his voice was low and persistent. "About the apocalypse? That Lucifer had risen?"

Sariel looked upset, at herself, at the world. At Abaddon for the position the knight had put her in. Dean was suddenly very relieved that he had followed through with it, stabbed the bitch in Sammy's ceasing heart. He was sure his past self wouldn't hold to the same conviction, but right now, seeing the hope in Cas's eyes, the wonder in Hannah's, Sam's steady form warm _because_ of Sariel...it seemed like the world he had so long loathed was chasing around that particular ideal of choices and crossroads.

Who knows where they could have ended up, now, if Abaddon had been allowed to live. Who knows who would be in the chair Cas was standing next to, where the angel tablet would be, who would be alive and who wouldn't.

"No," Sariel's voice wavered but held firm. "No I didn't. All I had left, all that remained within me was my knowledge, my healing and my longevity. I outlived many men, healed many wounded soldiers and saw many great things, but I missed out on my own goddamned apocalypse."

"Sarah saved me, as well," Sam piped up from the corner. He looked around uncomfortably as everyone turned to look at him. Dean raised an eyebrow and Sam gave him a half shrug back. It couldn't hurt, to prove her worth. To have saved the life of one of Cas's closest friends.

"Of course," Cas said. "The Hell Gate. Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Found, it, yeah," Dean said evasively. "But there's no way we can go down alone. Dante might not have been right about everything, but there's no way in Hell just me and Sam can make it down there alone."

"And it was guarded, which is how Sam was injured?" Cas hazarded, looking from brother to brother, and then to Sarah, who nodded.

"Hell hounds," Sariel supplied. "Guarding in a three mile radius. They were receptive to my threats, but they would die before giving up their positions, giving up their home."

"Dandy," Dean muttered, casting about this new information. He hadn't given the disappearing act committed by the Hounds much thought after being saved by Sarah and his incessant thoughts to get Sam to safety and hospice care, but now that he thought about it, they all did disappear after Sarah had arrived. Perhaps they had sense what the brothers couldn't, her rolling waves of power and light.

Nevertheless, Sariel the goddamned Forgotten Archangel had sent them off to the kennel with their tails between their legs, and Dean was thankful.

"Back to more pressing matters," Cas announced, picking up the tablet Sariel had lain out on the desk. He grimaced slightly as either the power or memories associated with the block of stone sent  a tremor through his system, but ignored it to look up across at Sarah. "Can you read this?"

"No," Sariel said shortly. "Only the prophet, God or Metatron has the power to do that. But I _can_ tell you that placing that tablet in the hands of the angels turned against their own nature by Metatron's mind wiping methods will be healed. And that Metatron wasn't lying." She stiffened and when she spoke next, her voice was soft, apologetic. "There is no way to reverse the spell."

"We will never fly again," Hannah said softly, and though Cas had said that angels could not cry, Dean saw something deep and breaking within the soldier. She'd held onto the hope, the symbol that was her wings, that was her freedom. She straightened her arms straight down her sides, ending in two fists, and bowed her head.

"No," Cas agreed, and though he masked it, Dean knew his friend well enough to know what he was feeling. They'd been pushed out of the nest, wings wrenched off, finding that climbing to the top did nothing but prove that detached wings couldn't be sewn back on. Nothing about this was fair. Thanks to Metatron's selfishness, thanks to Cas's trusting nature.

But Dean only blamed the dead of the two for what the angels were going through.

Sariel held her chin a miniscule higher, asserting her dominance, bring the two forlorn angels back to the here and now. "During my comatose state, I recalled that Metatron ordered there be no more prophets. Has the switch been returned?"

"I'm gonna have to slow you down there," Dean put in suddenly. "We really going to ruin more people's lives, just to have the writer of some half-assed gospel? Every single Prophet we've met has faded off or died way before their time." He looked around himself, uncomfortable with the intensity of how everyone looked at him. Sam with agreement, Hannah with concentrated confusion, Sariel with wonder and curiosity, and Cas with something stronger and more potent than pride. "I just...why ruin more lives than we have to?"

"I'm with Dean," Sam said grimly. "Kevin would have had a full life if it wasn't for becoming a prophet. We can't do it anymore."

"A prophet is necessary," Sariel rebuked. "We need one, to foresee the things that will occur and to note down the happenings of earth. Did Kevin—Tran, wasn't it?—begin his position quite young, then?"

"Too young," Dean said, his voice almost too bitter to be taken seriously as a point of argument. "We can't...it ruins people's lives. Chuck, the guy before Kevin, was a drunk and a recluse. I mean, he was no Poe, but he would have had a decent life and a better set of books if it wasn't for us. Wasn't for this messed up fuckery of a world we're part of."

"Eloquently put," Sariel remarked, but she looked nearly convinced. She made as if to say something, but then stopped, mouth closing decisively. Then she started up again. "But stories must be recorded."

"Then they could be informed, maybe?" Sam suggested. "Like angelic possession. They have to be in full possession of all the facts before they accept the position."

Sariel tilted her head. "Sounds fair."

"As we are serving our true purpose now," Cas said. "It sounds like it would be foolish to force unhappiness and misery upon the creatures God set us over to protect."

"Well put," Hannah agreed.

"Now," Sariel clasped her hands on the desk. "This chatter is important, but there are things more so. Castiel, you and Hanael must go to where the renegade angels are being held and free them from Metatron's post mortem control. Then, spread the word." She stood up straight, casting them all a decisive look. "Tell them that Sariel the Archangel has returned. Tell them that the age of dictators and forcing hand over humanity is over."

She smiled, and her eyes caught the faux light from outside one of Metatron's stained glass windows. "Tell them Heaven is facing it's restoration."

* * *

"So this is Heaven, huh?" Sam asked, casting an eye around as he sat next to Dean, biding their time on a set of seats by the Scribe's section of inner Heaven. He looked back to Dean. "I kinda expected more harps."

"Dude," Dean said, tiredly, but excited. "You've _been_ to Heaven before."

"Sure," Sam said, still looking around critically. "Doesn't change the fact."

"Right," Dean agreed. He sighed and sat back. "You think this is it? You think we're nearly there?"

"Well, we're _far_ from nearly there," Sam said, sinking into the memories of all the souls that must be captured beneath the earth. They still had to save them, still had to dig them out and set them free. "But, yeah. I think she's the real deal."

"How's the Tetanus doing, by the way?" Dean said, casting an eye over his brother. "Have to say, the heavenly juice box hasn't done anything for your looks."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Jerk." He cleared his throat, turning serious. "I'm not sure. I _do_ know that I sensed that Sariel had lied to us when she told us she was a hunter, I just didn't know that I knew."

Dean nodded seriously. "Can you shoot lasers out of your nose?"

Sam snorted a laugh. "Right. Because I'd want to do that."

"As if you wouldn't. What the hell kind of TV did you watch as a kid?" Dean demanded. But then he cut Sam off before the younger brother could reply. "Oh yeah. National Geographic and all that other nerdy junk."

"Well, look who wants deformed lasers now," Sam informed Dean brightly.

"A Laser wouldn't be a deformation, it would be an improvement," Dean argued, looking at Sam like there were no two ways about it.

Sam just cast his brother a look. "Right."

* * *

"No wings," Hannah mused, slinking along beside Cas has he handed the tablet from angel to angel. Seraphina, Rosemary, Romeo, Uriah and other selected angels who had been loyal to Cas were caring for them, informing them of all that had happened while they were out, ensuring that they were well adjusted. Many remembered their time as captors within their own brain, some others like a possession victim, with brief flashes of sincerity and then a black slumber, and the rest simply awoke as if from a bad dream. And those were the ones who couldn't remember anything but the scream each made as they were turned inside out.

"Hannah," Cas said warningly. In conjunction with Sariel, who was addressing Hosts of angels now, they'd agreed to let the angels have a few moments of happiness and hope. The blow then wouldn't bestow a bitter memory onto Sariel, on becoming themselves.

"I'm sorry," Hannah apologised, smiling at an angel who was looking around itself. She calmed it before standing next to Cas. "But..." She held her jaw tightly, eyes fixed determinedly to the floor. "Oh, I will miss my wings."

"You still have them," Cas reminded her, feeling his own, the featherless lumps that they'd become quivering at their mention on his back. He didn't need Hannah's look to know what she meant. It wasn't the same, the spindly bone and muscle that they were left with. Still breathtakingly beautiful, harshly useless.

The cries and loud words of the assembled choirs around them gave the two friends privacy. Cas smiled at Hannah, sincerely smiled, like the world was rolling just so he could walk, like the sun shone just to warm his skin.

"The Archangel has returned. I had hoped Gabriel would come, but Sariel it powerful, and just."

"How can we be _sure_?" Hannah demanded, looking as though it had been weighing on her tongue for a considerable amount of time. "You trusted Metatron and we fell to the earth. You trusted Crowley and killed more angels than any war as ever seen."

"I trusted you, didn't I?" Cas asked her, softly, refusing to be moved to despair or anger by her words.

Hannah smiled but it was the ghost of what she had to give. He wanted to instil hope into her, to remind her of what it felt like to behold Sariel for the first time. In all her glory and goodness and light.

"Metatron fled because of Raphael and Michael," Hannah reminded him. "And we thought that that meant we were free to trust him. Sariel fled for the same reasons."

Cas shook his head. "She didn't flee. She was thrown, for showing dislike for what they were planning. She knew God, worked with him, believed in the things we believe in." Cas paused, searching for something to convince her. In the end, he went for the simplest thing, the most direct thing he could reach. "She is good, Hannah. I don't trust my instincts, but I do trust yours, and I trust Sam and Dean's.

Hannah looked up at him, Cas could sense her scouring his expression, for any amount of mistrust or lies. She peeked out a small smile.

Hannah nodded and turned to the angels who were healing from the tablets. "We'll be ok."

"Heaven will be ok," Cas agreed, looking out with her.

Hannah repeated it to herself again, more like she was addicted to the feeling the words left in the air than that she was trying to convince herself. "We'll be ok."

" _All_ of us."

* * *

The room Sariel claimed as her own had once been Metatron's, but when Hannah returned to it by order of the archangel, it was already starting to change. The warm wood oak of the walls had been replaced by a wash of dark blue, and the walls had been lined with bookshelves, stuffed with files and novels and photographs. Behind Sariel was a swamp of maps and demographical charts and signs. The desk was unchanged, and there was still the same god awful carpet, but Hannah could feel the different. Like a shift in the air before a storm. Like the breath before the break of dawn.

"Hannah," Sariel stood to receive her. The windows of stained glass had been replaced as well, long rectangles cut into the walls between the blue. Hannah knew the sun was fake, but it didn't change the way it startled along Sariel's hair, that way it turned the blonde into a crown.

"Sariel," Hannah greeted in turn. Cas's words had nearly convinced her, but she needed proof. Cas was detriment enough to her trust in Angelic instinct, and despite what she knew in her heart to be true, her brain was not as convinced.

Sariel sat and gestured to the chair across from her. It was sleek, but still similar in design to the one Metatron had made. Then entire room was changing, almost before Hannah's eyes.

She was _certain_ the carpet had been a shade or two lighter a moment ago.

"Do you like the refurbishments?" Sariel asked, looking around the changing room with Hannah. She smiled fondly. "I didn't do it on purpose, but...well. It's my home now. And it moulds to whoever lives here."

"Cas—" Hannah stopped herself, but continued when she saw Sariel look at her curiously. She cleared her throat and tried again. "It didn't change for Cas."

"No," Sariel agreed. "Curious, certainly. But, I'm sure I know why."

Hannah nodded meekly. "I think I know as well."

"Castiel never wanted to lead," Sariel said slowly. "He has only ever wanted to be an Angel. Every action, every happening that Cas has done since being freed from Heaven's control during the apocalypse, has been to better Heaven." Sariel's eyes alighted with a grim humour. "He follows the right map, but heads in the wrong direction."

"Not recently," Hannah said, not sharing the archangels amusement.

"No," Sariel agreed. "Which is why I called you here."

Hannah adjusted herself on the seat, nervous and curious, terrified that something terrible would happen.

What if she'd been _right_? What if Sariel was not to be trusted? Archangels no longer had the shining promise that they once had, they no longer held any sort of precedence in Hannah's mind. She'd been betrayed too often and worked too hard.

What if Sariel could sense that she and Cas were close, close as friends, close as family? What if she were to _use it against them_?

That fear that built itself in Hannah's spine came to a horrified standstill.

 _What if_?

"Right," Hannah agreed. "Of course."

Sariel looked worried. Almost nervous as she beheld Hannah. "You led beside Cas, didn't you? During the rebellion and during his brief reign in Heaven?"

Hannah felt her hands start to shake, pressed up against each other, folded neatly in her lap. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Sariel bit her lip, and the nervousness spiked. "I was wondering, with Cas uninterested in any sort of position above what he'd once had...Hannah. I need a second in command I can trust."

Hannah felt the kicking in her stomach suddenly subside. Her hands unclenched and fell forgotten, fingers still entwined. She gaped openly at the angel. "What?" She burned red as she recognised her rudeness. "I, uh...sorry?"

Sariel looked like she had relaxed as well, now that what she'd wanted to say was out there. "Second in command, Hannah. You are good and kind, and you deserve this position more than any other angel. You have an infallible moral code, and a devotion to Heaven and your brothers and sisters." Sariel smiled slightly as she looked Hannah dead in the eye. "I don't...you don't _have_ to say anything now. It's a big ask, and I know how close you have become with both Cas and the Winchesters. You won't be able to see them as much if you do. But please, consider it."

Hannah nodded slowly. "I will."

"Good," Sariel thanked her with a smile. "Feel no need to come quickly, I know this must be a difficult—"

"No," Hannah didn't have time now, lost between herself and the decision presented to her, to worry about properness. Sariel didn't seem offended, only puzzled. "I will. I'll do it. I'll be your second in command."

Sariel blinked in surprise. "Wait, don't make a decision you might regret."

"I'm not," Hannah said, and she smiled. "I'm certain."

Sariel smiled at her, and Hannah beamed back.

* * *

"Second in command, eh?" Dean asked, purposefully standing up pompous. "Well, I gotta say. I never voted for you."

Hannah scowled, but knew enough about Dean to know when he was joking. "I got the one vote that mattered."

"High five," Sam said, holding his hand up and realising the awkward situation he'd made when Hannah just stared at it dumbly. "Uh, so yeah." He folded his hand and placed it ashamedly behind his back. "But seriously, Hannah, good job. You deserve this."

"Sam's right," Cas agreed, looking at Hannah with a brilliant warmth in his blue eyes. "She could not have chosen with more wisdom."

Hannah smiled shyly. "Thank you, Castiel."

They were all seated on the couches Sam and Dean had claimed before. The brothers had spent their time reconstructing their favourite scenes from Star Wars with a set of three day old newspapers, and had both quickly swept Obi Wan under the table when Cas and Hannah arrived. The angels had impeded on an argument about whether Hans and Leia kissing was memorable enough, and Dean had called Sam a nerd all of three times in his argument against.

The only one of Hannah and Cas who had any idea of what they were talking about was Cas, but even he had no idea why they were arguing about fictional characters.

"Right," Dean said, smacking his hands together. "Why are me and Sam still here?"

Cas looked uncomfortable. "Well, Sariel has managed to convince me to force you to stay to speak to her before you go. But obviously, I can't force you to do anything."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "That's obvious to you?"

"Is she busy?" Sam asked, looking over to the door Hannah had just walked out from, her knees uncharacteristically shaky, her eyes unfathomable as she looked over to them. Her chin had shifted, when she told the news. From confused to proud.

She nodded. "Yes. There are many matters that must be seen to immediately."

Sam agreed with her. Sam was proud of her as well.

He wondered if she would be too busy to see he and Dean now, whether she'd be free to speak to them, to smile at them. He hoped not. Because eventually things would settle down, and the earth and Heaven and Hell would return to how they were before the catastrophe struck.

Before Lucifer fell, before Abaddon crawled back out of the depths to try and wrought chaos over the world.

Crowley would take care of Hell, and Sariel of the heavens.

"When do we go in?" Dean asked. He looked over to Hannah, who looked as in the dark about the situation as they were.

She just shrugged. "No idea. She'll call you in."

"Kinda weird to be waiting on someone who gave you their sandwich," Sam murmured, tapping absently at the space on his chest where the gouges from the Hounds had been.

"Speaking of," Cas said suddenly. "What differences have you noticed, with the archangel's blood in your veins?"

Sam just shook his head. "Not much. I mean, there's that feeling I get in the bottom of my stomach when someone lies, and I sensed that it was Sariel behind the door this morning before she opened it, but other than that..." he let it trail off.

Before Cas, frowning and considerate, could go any further with the line of questioning, the door to Sariel's office swung open.

The brothers exchanged meaningful looks and then stood, nodding to Cas and Hannah and walking beside each other into the room.

Dean closed the door behind them and they both took in the new navy room. The pictures on the side struck a deep chord within Sam, so deep he knew that the pictures must change from person to person. There was the Polaroid Jess had convinced him to participate in, her grinning up at the lens, him smiling meekly, the Californian sun an orange, hazy circle setting along the horizon behind them. Sam was certain that it, along with all the other pictures of them when their house had burnt to the ground. But there it sat. Like it had never been touched.

Sam bit a breath as he took in his wife-to-be's face. He felt something deflate inside of him as he realised that he'd begun to forget what her face had looked like.

The rest of the pictures were equally heartbreaking. He almost felt tears pricking the corner of his eye as he took all of them in. He and Dean, younger than he could remember, dressed up in winter gear and grinning at some camera. Dean had his arm around Sam's shoulders, and the eyes he inherited from their mother were round and large, determinedly bright as he laughed at something the person behind the camera had said.

Sam didn't say anything as he sat down. Not as Sarah smiled at them, not as the light from outside brightened to allow for more visibility, not as he realised the feeling of sickness he'd thought was sadness was actually a biting, burning coil of utter _happiness_.

 _This_ is what Heaven should be like. Not the half forgotten memory of some dog he'd run away with, not a dinner with a girl he hadn't really liked.

But this, this room with his family adorned in silver and gold, this was where he belonged. This was where he wanted to stay.

Where he could bask in that biting, beautiful pain. Where he could fall asleep, staring so hard at Jess's lost face that when he closed his eyes, her smile was imprinted on the back of his lids.

"So," Sariel finally said, both of them snapping to attention. Sam spared a quick glance to Dean and saw that his brother was equally affected, throat tightening as he swallowed. "Here it ends."

"Here it does," Dean agreed. "We made it, we floated like butterflies, stung like bees and now we're on our way to Rocky IV."

"Quite," Sariel agreed. She looked around the room. "What do you think of the refurbishing?"

"I like it," Sam answered, honest, embarrassed by how raw his words sounded as he said them. He coughed awkwardly. "It's nice."

"Does it change for everyone?" Dean said, obviously indicating the pictures on the wall. Sam caught another one in the corner of his eye, the one Dean had kept of their mother.

Their lives had been ruined avenging Mary's memory, but Sam was proud that he and Dean never lost track of the truth behind who was at fault. It was the demons, it was the angels. It was Fate herself, spinning the golden thread.

Sariel nodded, looking as well at the frames. She was nostalgic, the air had changed. "I can't see anything, and neither can any other angel. We were not programmed to understand regret and loss."

"That can't be right," Sam said, intent, voice barely above a whisper. He moved his head to meet her as she tried to look away. "It can't be. Look at Cas. Look at _you_."

"Well," Sariel agreed. "Castiel and I were always odd eggs. Doesn't mean that the frames will fill for us." Sariel's mouth puckered into a bitter smile. "Angels aren't big on taking photos, capturing memories."

"No," Dean agreed.

The three fell silent, each trapped in their own worlds, pursued by their own demons.

"Now," Sariel blinked into the present. "We talked some at the motel, but I'm sure you have questions. Before the world catches up to us, let's take a moment."

"Questions?" Sam asked. "I have _thousands_ of questions. The real problem is where to start."

Sariel smiled and laughed, her voice toiled like bells. "What about the beginning; Chronologically, where does you _first_ question lie?"

Sam sorted through all he wanted to know, before finally selecting one.

"It's not chronological, but..." he looked over to Dean, who seemed as curious as Sarah about where Sam was going with this. Sam was surprised. Surely Dean would have caught on. But as their eyes met, understanding flared in his big brothers eyes and with a flash, Dean gave his permission. Sam met Sariel's gaze dead on. "How can you help us get the souls held in Hell?"

"Oh," Sariel said, startled, obviously falling far from where she had thought he'd be heading. " _Oh_. Uh, yes. Of course." She picked up a pen and span it between her fingers. "What do you suggest?" She looked down, lost in thought, scanning through her borrowed memories. "Remind me," she looked up. "What did Crowley say _exactly_?"

"When I..." Sam paused for a moment, remembering Death's warning, but then continuing on with only a little hesitation. "When I died, Crowley took me to Hell, but he didn't put me into the inferno."

"Which was on me," Dean butted in.

"No, Dean," Sam said tiredly, "it wasn't."

Sariel sent him a look, and even though he wished he didn't, he felt a turning in his gut that he'd come to recognise. That someone, this time that someone being him, was not telling the truth.

But Sariel didn't bring it up, and neither did Sam. Some things were better left untruthful, some things were better left in the dark, where they could fester off to die. There were some things were replacement was not only easier, it was crucial. Telling Dean would strain him irreparably, it would hurt Sam, it would hurt everyone who had ever been and ever will be in contact with them.

People didn't need to know that Dean Winchester had sent his little brothers soul to hell in the keep of the King of the basement. People didn't need to know how much had been left up to chance and the few drops of humanity still pumping around the demons veins.

And Dean didn't need to know either.

"Anyway," Sariel said flippantly, the moment of the lie lost as the twisting in his stomach eased. "What did Crowley say?"

"That he would have liked the full set," Dean summarised. "Or something like that. And there are no souls in Heaven that belonged to any of the Hunters."

"We asked Cas to scope the place," Sam added. He shook his head. "No change from what we already knew."

"What do you remember?" Sariel asked Sam. "From your time in Hell?"

"White walls, Crowley came to him and they talked. There were no obvious signs of Hell from where Sam was, and he thought he was alone," Dean recited diligently, practically word for word that Sam had said it when Cas had first asked him before they'd both set off to the Mouth to Hell.

Sam nodded in agreement but Sariel looked confused.

"Crowley had my mind wiped," Sam explained hurriedly. "We had Hannah un-wipe it to relocate the memories and then re-wipe so I wouldn't, you know," Sam screwed up his face as he searched for a word. He waved his hand flippantly. "Go insane."

Sariel's eyebrows moved towards her hairline. "Fair enough." She looked back to Dean. "So we think the souls are being held in some sort of prison in Hell? But one _without_ the torture?"

Dean nodded. "We assumed that Crowley was using them for information. You forget things in the pit. All your humanity gets tortured out of you, and so do all your memories."

"Did you forget things?" Sariel asked, intrigued. "When you were down there?"

Sam felt Dean shift and knew that this was more than a sore spot for his brother. This was a sheet draped over the worst 40 years anyone could ever experience. This was all the worst things in the world burnt to ashes and forced down your throat.

Sam knew Dean wouldn't answer if he didn't want to, so he was surprised when he did. "Yeah. But all my memories were restored when Cas returned me to Earth."

Sariel cocked her head. "Curious. But not unfathomable. And you were right, 40 years, and I do not mean to make any suggestion about the pain you felt down there, is not much compared to what some get."

"Right," Dean agreed, the shifting abruptly stopped, body stilling with the memories of Hell. Memories he'd only have to revisit as he went there with Sam again.

They'd both been. But this time, at least they'd be together.

"So," Sariel said again. "What do you suggest?"

"We'll need a team," Dean said. "At least one angel. But too many and we'll draw attention to ourselves."

Sarah nodded in affirmation. "Smart. Who else?"

"Any other Hunters willing," Sam said. "Garth Fitzgerald, Jody Mills, Tracy Bell, Alex, maybe even some friendly monsters."

"You'll need to make sure you've got a small group," Sariel said warningly. "Hell might not be as sensitive as Heaven to intrusion, but it _would_ pick up on more than four or five souls still perfect. Even then it's only  a matter of time."

"Right," Dean agreed. "So, five willing Hunters and an Angel."

Sariel nodded. "I'll find someone for you."

"What about Cas?" Dean frowned, wondering where the confusion of the identity of the angel was coming from. "Wouldn't he come?"

Sarah just gave a small smile. "Farewell, boys. I am far too busy now to entertain you, and must insist you get back to earth and sleep off the past few days."

Sam swayed as he stood, thinking about sleep. Dean had managed to catch a few winks the night before, but Sam had stayed up, watching out should Sarah prove to be hostile, should she want to come back.

"Sounds good," he murmured, reaching out instinctively to latch on to Dean as he threatened to fall again.

"Alright bud," Dean said heavily. He turned to Sarah apologetically. She was still sitting, watching them prepare to leave with a mild amusement. "Sorry. He gets clingy when he's tired."

"I don't blame him," Sarah said. "It's been a rough couple of days."

They made their way to the door, and before they could leave, Sariel called after them.

"I'll tell you the identity of the angel I've assigned to you in a few days," she said.

Neither Winchester missed on what she was really doing, and they were more grateful than irritated. Dean knew in a day or two, he'd start getting angry, but as he and Sam made their way through the door, cutting off the room of navy and memory, he was certain that Sariel had done everything in her power to make everything perfect.

The under layer was practically tangible. _Take a few days off. Rest. Your friends will not know the difference that a mere number of hours might give._

It didn't help either of the brothers psyches as they made their way back to earth.

It did nothing for their guilt.

* * *

"A lot of angels are calling for your head, Cas," Sarah informed the previous Caretaker of heaven with a wry sigh and a look of almost boredom, like she'd been put off by the number of times she'd heard the same story.

Cas tried not to remember how hard he'd worked on taking care of Heaven when no one else would, how fiercely he'd believed in the world and his brothers and sisters during and after the fall. So he just let out a small, "Oh," and hoped Sariel would get to the end of where she was going quickly.

"Obviously, I'm not going to do that," she said, leaning back, smiling at him as he relaxed. "I've seen what they never have, and I understand."

"Thank you," Cas breathed, feeling his fingers release, feeling his heart resume normal rhythm.

"But, you _do_ need to be punished, and the Winchesters need an angel to go with them into Hell."

Cas understood immediately. "So then it would look like I'm repenting for my crimes."

"Sending you somewhere you'd want to be anyway," Sariel finished. She smiled. "Neat, how the world works out sometimes, isn't it?"

"Yes," Cas agreed, feeling his mind sort through what he'd need to do, who he'd need to talk to, what he'd need to bring.

"Before you go, though," Sariel said quickly. She folded her hands awkwardly on the table. All that persona she had portrayed when Cas had walked through the door had become lost.

Cas was curious about Sariel. She changed at the drop of the hat. One moment she was Dido, sitting amongst the Carthaginians, delivering verdicts and resolving disputes, and the next she was scrambling, a lost little girl staring at an entire abyss. Maybe now she got it. Maybe now she saw how the rest of her existence would pan out.

She would lead forever, and the weight would never cease.

She was a storm front promising vital winds and a howl of a hurricane, when in fact she was the warm winds floating towards the sea. That false ferocity would one day whittle away to where it was no longer necessary, but it wasn't now. It wasn't today.

Today the angels needed a tough leader. But soon enough, all they would need was her gentle warm and a guiding hand.

"Don't go, uh... _just_ yet," she said hesitantly, not quite meeting Cas's eyes. "Give them three days. Three days to rest. For the Angelic blood in Sam's stream to begin to thaw. They've been through a lot. And they're so _tired_."

"I know," Cas said, finding his voice low, his throat raw. "I will. Thank you, Sariel. You will do well here."

"I hope so," Sariel smiled, reverting back to her storm status, back arched like the grand swoop of a lions, shoulders squared and ready to catch whatever was thrown at her.

Cas smiled back. Because there was that word again. The one everyone had been whispering with round, shining eyes and determined, clenched hands. _Hope_.

* * *

"Hi, Sam," Sariel said.

The dream world Sam had created for himself had been horrific when the archangel had come to see him. She'd closed her eyes to the images and changed them, wiping her hand across it and fixing into something a little more aesthetically pleasing than the depths of Lucifers cage.

Now they sat opposite each other in a library. It was nondescript and typical, leather chairs placed around low lying coffee tables, murmuring students milling around, holding books they'd been recommended. The lady librarian tended to the fire beside them, poking the smouldering logs with a long metal stick.

"Hey, Sarah," Sam greeted back. He didn't seem surprised that she was there with him, but then again, the dreaming rarely find surprise in anything. Sarah had been relieved when she'd found that she could still jump into dreams. The conversation she wanted to have was private.

It'd only taken a day for Sarah to realise that Sam went nearly nowhere without his brother.

"So," she said. "How are things?"

"Things are good," Sam answered honestly. He frowned, looking around. "I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

"In a way," Sarah acknowledged. "But everything happening now is entirely real. I'm here, and you're here, and we both have full control over ourselves."

"Awesome," Sam said. "So, yeah. Things have been good. Me and Dean have both clocked out. We managed to find a motel a little closer than the one by those woods."

"That's good," Sarah said sincerely. "I'm glad you are both safe."

"Yeah." Sam's smile turned awkward. "So, anyway...why are you paying me a visit again?"

"A number of reasons," Sariel said. "The first being that I haven't decided who I'm going to be sending with you yet."

"Right," Sam arched an eyebrow, disbelieving.

Sariel smiled widely. "Right." She affirmed.

Sam smiled and the dream turned warmer. The chill not entirely killed off by the crackling flames of the small fire beside them created by the darkest depths of Sam's nightmares started to abate. He was curiously resourceful and strong.

 _He'd have to be_ , she mused, casting her mind through all her borrowed memories, pausing significantly at the ones where Sam had suffered. And there were a lot.

"And secondly, I know that you're curious about the effects of my blood."

"Right, yeah," Sam said, without the enthusiasm she would have expected. This must have showed, because he hastily gestured pointlessly to help explain. "It's just...how much does it matter, in the scheme of things? Tomorrow me and Dean will be asking people to risk their lives. I mean it's not exactly _high_ on the list of priorities right now."

"Does Dean agree with that?"

Sam shrugged. "Probably."

"Well, you're wrong," Sarah said. "On both counts. Dean is so worried about you, Sam. It kills him to see you suffer. Every moment you suffer, he watches to make sure you couldn't be made more ok. Even after Hannah healed you, he was desperate that you weren't still hurt. He's worried about the angel blood. And you should be too."

"Because it reminds him of Ruby and Azazel?" Sam guessed, and Sarah heard the bitterness.

"Somewhat," she inclined her head to agree. "But much has changed since then. The lines between monsters and the good guys has been blurred. You started that, Sam. You were a thing that some of the 'good guys' wanted to hunt, and you were so _purely_ good that it convinced him otherwise."

"Took a while," Sam muttered.

"It did," Sarah agreed. "But, back to you, Sam. Angelic blood is different from demonic. It won't last long in your system. _Especially_ in your system. So it'll wear away."

Sam hesitated. "Huh."

"What's wrong?"

"Well, when Gadreel possessed me, he left some grace inside," Sam gestured to his neck. "It wasn't enough to track him, but, you know..." he looked so nonplussed, but Sariel could tell what he was about to say had been eating at him. "I thought...Heaven vs. Hell and all that crap, that you know, by _now_ , all of the demon blood would have just been...washed away."

Sariel didn't say anything. But she felt her heart snap into two.

"And for another thing," he said. "The trials. I thought _they_ were curing me. Turns out that wasn't true either. I mean, I'm human enough to cure a demon." His voice cracked, but his eyes were a firm tired. He didn't look bothered, he didn't look like any of this touched him at all. Practised Apathy. Sariel loathed the world for what it had made the younger of the Winchester brothers. "But I'm still... _not_."

"You _are,_ or the angel blood never would have worked," Sariel insisted.

Sam looked at her for a second, before dismissing her claim. "You can't know that for sure."

"I'm _sorry_ that you're still suffering," Sarah blurted out. "I'm _sorry_ that I wasn't there, that this fucked up plan was allowed to move through. I'm so, so _sorry_ for all of it."

"Oh God, it's not your fault," Sam said suddenly, reaching out and clasping her wrist, just above her hand. "Please, don't blame yourself."

"Well, it's what _you_ do," Sarah said, and she gently moved her hand away. Their hands disentangled and Sam watched her, breathless. "We blame ourselves and our courage is an illusion. But you do it far too often."

Sam just looked at her. He wouldn't be swayed, not now. Sarah saw that. But she also saw that there was a crumbling in his mind, a tremble in the foundations of his self blame. Perhaps one day, with the help of Dean and all else, she could prove to him that he was worthy of every affection. That he was unworthy of the blame he heaped onto himself.

It wasn't today. But Sariel swore that it would be some day.

She'd taken a special interest in these two presentations of humanity. In how tightly Dean squeezed his eyes closed when he tried to go to sleep, on that wary look Sam got every time he was introduced to a new angel. They were so unashamedly human. So unfaithfully lost.

"You are blessed by me," Sariel informed him. "You are granted the easiest of routes to Heaven when you meet your end. One day you will see how you have suffered and know it for what it is; not payment but punishment."

Sam shuffled, made as if to speak but said nothing.

Sarah hadn't expected any more.

"Goodnight, Sam," she said, smiling at him.

"Good bye," he said, like it was the last time he would see her.

And in a way, he was almost right.

_And Our courage is an illusion._

She stood and fixed her hand over his forehead, mothering him, pushing his hair back before he closed his eyes and she disappeared, leaving him to roam the corridors of the library she'd left him in. In that small bit of comfort at the back of his mind.

* * *

"Who have we got?" Dean asked, looking down at the brainstormed names. There were some under 'definitely not', like those Hunters who had tried to kill them (it was a typically extensive list) and those who didn't care either way. Matthew was among them for his not-caring attitude, as well as a few others who put Dean in a decisively bad mood when he saw them.

Carlos, Tracy Bell and a few others had made the jump into the maybe section, but they were all hard people to trust. And Dean and Sam knew without a doubt that they'd say no to an expedition to the depths of Hell.

In the 'to call' list was Tamara, who might be interested in getting Isaac somewhere safe, then Jody and Alex. Dean was sure Jody wouldn't hear of allowing Alex to go through that sort of thing, but having met them both, he knew who'd win in a fight of that sort of calibre.

And it wasn't the sheriff.

Garth was there as well, but other than them, the list seemed a pitifully empty.

"Well, we haven't got an armada," Sam said, tapping his pen next to the pad. Dean thought that if they couldn't think of anyone within a reasonable time frame, it was probably a good call that they weren't going to be worth calling.

"Ok," Dean stated after a moment. "Do you want to call Jody, or shall I?"

Sam smiled and glaring, Dean snatched the phone off the table, preparing to enter in the policeman's number.

" _Dean_?"

"Hey, Sheriff," Dean greeted easily. "See, we have a bit of a favour to ask."

" _Yeah? What would that be? Not another Hell Hound, right?"_

"Well, funny you should mention Hell," Dean said easily. Sam was watching him, but Dean ignored his younger brother. He needed to be in the mode if he was going to charm Jody into their suicide mission. "Because, well, to put it lightly, you ever seen that movie where all those women are held in that prison and they need to escape before they're all killed? And then that American Dude comes and he's sort of the game changer?"

There was a pause on the line. " _Wait, you mean Chicken Run_?"

"Sure," Dean allowed. "Anyway, you're sort of our American Dude."

Jody swore, loudly. " _You two are planning on sneaking into Hell? You've got to be kidding me!_ "

"No, sorry," Dean said. "We sorta think there might be some Hunter's souls down there that were intercepted and don't deserve it. We'd like to, you know, set them free."

Jody paused again. " _I can't believe you tried to get me into a Hell Heist by referencing Chicken Run. And calling me a rooster._ "

"I thought it was inspirational."

Jody changed the tone decisively. Her voice dropped and Dean could tell that she was holding the phone closer to her mouth so that she wouldn't have to speak as loudly. " _You really need my help on this one, boy_?"

"We do," Dean told her. "And we can't let them stay down there."

There was a moment of silence. Dean knew she was mulling it over, thinking it through. She had responsibilities now, she had Alex.

" _Ok. Count me in, Dean._ "


	9. The Taking of Perdition One Two Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a group of their friends behind them, Sam and Dean are finally within the grasp of freeing the souls of their parents and friends that have been trapped down in Hell.
> 
> (Equal to the mid season finale)

Seraphina had never been the best of her regiment. There had always been those prepared to go above and beyond, those prepared to step in and go above the norm. But not her. She was content with the back seat, content to watch the sun as the earth span in dizzying circles. Content enough to stretch out and stare at the stars.

But, like all angels, everything about her world had changed when they fell from heaven. She'd had to grow strong, had to keep one hand on her angel blade and the other in a fist. She'd been forced to adapt, to survive. To fully appreciate what she had and to finally understand why all those other angels tried so much harder than her to succeed.

Sariel had been a change of scenery, someone _true_ to work for, to work under. Sariel was done with the grand plans that all the other angels were so tired of, she was through with trying to fix things that weren't broken.

So when Sarah invited Seraphina to lead a group of angels to track down the missing weapons from the inventory of Heaven, she'd heartily accepted.

It had taken a while. An agonizing crawl without their wings and even slower trying to figure out the particulars of Balthazar's mind. He'd been tricky, and clever, and constantly looking out for only himself. They were all odd traits for angels, and along with empathy being sidelined as one of the possible attributes to a member of the host, even more difficult than if they had been humans.

On Earth, though, Seraphina had learnt basic compassion and the depth of human decency, so it hadn't taken as long as it would have had.

Berlin sunk around the sky like a tide rising up to reach a shore. Built high were modern buildings and ancient churches alike, and glittering along the earth tiny lights like little lanterns squared off and beckoned to the muddied sky. From the south, storm clouds the size of cathedrals threatened, blocking over the sky and the sinking sun, the brilliant orange and yellow lost within its grey and black haze.

Seraphina arched her neck up to the heavens as she and the other ten angels from heaven heralded to this task climbed out of the taxis.

"It's sort of beautiful, isn't it?" Darda said, tilting his head as he peered to where the sun would be setting if it wasn't for the extreme overcast.

"It is," Seraphina agreed. She tilted her head down to the West to join him while the rest climbed out. "I wonder if the sun will ever break through. I wonder if it hasn't already set yet."

"It's dark enough," he commented, letting out a steamed breath. He grimaced. "And cold enough."

Seraphina nodded in agreement, before turning her attention to those in her charge.

"We're all ready? Good."

The Hotel wasn't the best in Berlin. It didn't rate along the top or the most expensive, but Balthazar's taste and narcissism had leant some of the clues to it being reasonably upmarket. But he had no idea how long he'd need to keep it open, and he could only leech off the account of his vessel for so long before all the funds dried out.

So there they stood, as the first of the great storms that would be coming that night pattered down on their shoulders.

Seraphina lead them in, to the front desk where she advanced, the rest standing in an awkward huddle in the middle of the room.

The boy had no way of knowing who she and the Choir gathered behind her were, but she found his disdain irritating all the same. They had guarded his kind for centuries! True, they had tried to end most of humanity during the times of Michael and Raphael and Zachariah, but they'd changed and adapted. He couldn't have known, but he _should have_.

"Can I help you?" he asked in German, and so Seraphina reverted to that as well.

"Yes. We need your help." She looked at him cautiously, hands resting on the bench in front of where he was sitting. Her vessel was too short for it to be the menacing pose it would have been if a larger person had done it, but it worked all the same. He pulled back slightly, giving her a once over. "There is a room here. That would have been booked out for over four years. We need it."

"Excuse me?" He asked, looking at her as if she was crazy, and forced her hands off the table as he rested his elbows on them, smirking up at her. "You're seriously insane, you know that?"

"I am not," Seraphina stated angrily, tired enough of hearing that from the other angels. That she was too flighty, too irresponsible. Wrong. "And I am _right_."

"You and your friends are going to have to leave," he said, returning to his paperwork, that irritating smirk still a fixture on his face, still pressingly mocking her. "All fifty of them."

Seraphina slammed her hand on the table. At least it dropped the smirk, but as he turned to her, Seraphina realised she was going to have to do something drastic.

 _So be it_ , she thought, and her eyes glowed blue.

"There is a room in this hotel that has been hired and never used for the past five years," Seraphina stated coldly, glaring down at him. "And you _will_ take us to it."

* * *

"There's nothing here," Schemhampharae said angrily, turning to Seraphina sharply, his eyes burning into hers.

Seraphina was equally distressed. She'd been _so sure_. Where else could it be? Why else would Balthazar set up this hotel room and make such an effort to be quiet about it? A fake name, a back end hotel, _everything_.

Seraphina ran a hand through her hair as she took in the rest of the angels in her care rummaging through the room. It was only a matter of time before they started ripping into walls or tearing the bed apart, and though, personally, Seraphina really had no qualms, they were on a stealth mission.

At this point, the smirking boy, wouldn't be spilling any information about 'scary glowing eyes' or her vessel's description to the police, but trash the room and he'd have to.

"Ok," she finally sighed, raising her hands to catch their attention. "Ok, I'm calling it. They are not here."

Rosemary, an angel who had been trusted by Castiel enough to lead one of the branches into Heaven during Metatron's control, rubbed a hand across the back of her neck and sported a wry smile. "After his death and he _still_ fools us."

"We are back to the start," Schemhampharae snapped, not in good humour. "Do not make light of such a situation."

"Are we?" Darda asked, moving through the other angels and leaning towards a place card on the bedside drawers. He frowned, picking it up and showing the gathered angels. "Does this seem odd to anyone else?"

"Should it?" Seraphina asked, glancing over it, puzzled.

"It's..." Darda shook his head. "While I was on Earth, I learned much. My vessel was the teacher at a high school. They'd all just had exams, so he was allowing them to watch a movie. And they were watching Titanic."

"Titanic?" A voice from the back asked. "What teacher allows that? There's a scene of fornication!"

"You're familiar with it?" Seraphina turned to the speaker, who was a shocked angel by the name of Joel.

He nodded. "Of course. I watched many movies while on earth." He frowned, turning back to the business at hand. "It does seem out of place. I mean, the movie was American, and it came out nearly two decades ago."

Seraphina suddenly stopped, heart beat racing as she raced over what she had just realised. "While Balthazar was on Earth, he went _back_ in time to save the titanic from sinking."

"It was a real ship?"

Everyone ignored Schemhampharae's outburst and listened attentively to Seraphina.

"So perhaps, when he went back to _resink_ it, he left the weapons there."

"In the bottom of the ocean," Darda realised, eyes widening.

Seraphina grinned harshly. "And he left that here, as a clue, for angels thrown from heaven."

"Who would _understand_ ," Rosemary nodded.

"There are doorways that open to the bottom of the ocean," Seraphina said determinedly, catching the eye of every angel under her command. "Come."

* * *

The salt water pulled at Seraphina's hair.

They moved through it like phantoms. Their eyes bulging and their clothes streaming around them, like every side was buffeted by an unbeatable wind.

They stood around the treasure that Balthazar had made so hard to find.

Seraphina grinned, that savage grin of victory and bent down. Her vessels' fingers were cumbersome with cold, but the constant healing rate held off frostbite, and they were movable enough for her to pick up what she was aiming for.

Her hand closed around a small piece of metal. A tiny, powerful key.

"Tell Sariel," she managed to convey to Darda, who nodded, tearing his sight away from the pile of weapons.

They were going to need a hell of a lot more angels.

* * *

"So it was a success then?" Cas asked, sitting opposite Sariel, 2 days after he'd promised to wait three to go help the Winchesters. He hadn't felt any resentment towards Sariel for making him wait. The brothers needed their rest, and they needed to take care of the aches that went a little further than healing would be able to help.

Sariel nodded, smiling. "Seraphina and her team were able to salvage nearly all that was taken by Balthazar after Sam and Dean stopped the apocalypse."

"Well, that is a relief," Cas said, sighing slightly. "I believe Balthazar suspected that I was going to become devoted to the drive for power more than my care for Heaven."

Sariel looked disbelieving. "Well, I don't think his motives were as pure as that, but we must thank him for holding out for as long as he did."

"He knew we'd find them eventually," Cas said, as a statement.

"Well, there wasn't much chance that we wouldn't," Sariel said. "Anyway, as you must go to the Winchesters in a day, I have allocated some things crucial to your mission."

Cas leaned forward towards the parcels on the table. One was very small, only large enough to carry perhaps a key, or a necklace. And the second was longer, a scroll or the bone of an unfortunate rare animal for a spell.

"The key to Hell?" Cas guessed, nodding to the smaller of the parcels.

Sariel smiled and nodded. She held her hand over it and it untied, the string falling over itself to untangle itself. Then the material containing the object fell, and blinking up at them was a small key made entirely from obsidian.

"This will work?" Cas frowned, not exactly in awe of the tiny thing.

"Samuel Colt created a lock over the mouth to Hell that could only be unlocked by his limited edition gun," Sarah said. "We created a key that unlocks all things."

"Including hell," Cas said.

Sarah nodded. "Especially Hell. And then—" she held her hand over the second parcel and Cas was quietly satisfied when a scroll unrolled itself as per his second guess.

"A map," Cas concluded, looking down at it.

"Yes. But this map marks out the area of a person, no matter where they are," Sarah said, almost excitedly. "Look!" she pointed down. "Heaven is difficult to map outside out offices, but of that it does it easily. Here is my office, and then the rooms that Naomi used to use to wipe minds, and then over here, are the dungeons."

"And this will work in Hell as well?" Cas asked, impressed.

Sarah smiled, excited, like she was a child at Christmas, "Yes. Yes! Isn't that amazing?"

"It is," Cas admitted. "It's amazing."

Cas settled back and the seals resealed and the parcels repacked, and carefully, Cas reached across and put them into his pockets.

"One more thing, before you go, Cas," Sariel said awkwardly. She looked suddenly tired again, tired and ancient and wise. "I'm afraid...I think that there might be an angel resistance forming on Earth."

Cas felt his blood cool. He knew that there had been angels loyal to the archangels before Sariel and felt that God's plan truly had been to sacrifice all those souls and lead the righteous to paradise, but he thought that their belief in that would have been stemmed with Sariel's instatement. But, apparently not.

"How do you think?"

"Nothing concrete yet," Sarah said, almost as if she was assuring herself. "But there are angels who you allowed to go to earth who have not reappeared. And I cannot find them."

"So either their dead or..."

"They'd set up warding, yes," Sarah nodded. She looked at Cas hopefully. "I know it's an ask, but while you're on Earth, maybe after you see the Winchesters, if you could just _find_ them, then maybe we'd have a chance of convincing them that they're wrong."

"They're only a few angels," Cas placated. "I'm sure they'll be no match for you."

" _You_ were just one Angel," Sarah reminded him. "And you defeated Heaven. Sam Winchester was just one man and he defeated the devil and ruined the apocalypse. Crowley was just a crossroads demon. And now he's king of Hell." Sarah sighed and ran a hand through her blonde hair. "Never underestimate the power of just one person, Cas."

* * *

It took Jody three days to lose Alex.

At the start, Alex'd just meet her along the route, and, rolling her eyes, she'd carry her adoptive daughter back into the car and back home. Alex would grumble, but she wouldn't yell, and she didn't complain. The first time this happened, Jody assumed that it was because she'd seen the error of her ways. Or something along those lines.

Of course, it couldn't be further from the truth.

Alex was a creature of intelligence and cunning. She'd been raised on deceit, and been fed lies ever since she'd been kidnapped by that family of Vampires. Jody honestly shouldn't have been surprised when she saw Alex sitting quietly at the booth closest to the door. Obviously the girl assumed that the more pressure applied, the more likely it was that Jody was going to let her come along. She was stubborn, but Jody could be stubborn as well.

So this time, Jody made _very_ sure Alex understood exactly what was happening. It was bad enough that she'd overheard and decided that warranted an invitation, but her continuous pressing for a ride was worrying to Jody.

It'd been on the third time that she'd finally threatened a babysitter. Alex was more than capable of taking care of herself, especially considering that it was Winter Holidays, and she spent most of her time pouring over Jody's collection of old books and wandering around Sioux Falls, seeing everything the world had to offer (which was far from what Sioux Falls had to offer, but it was a good place to start) through a different set of eyes.

Jody eased into the motel that the boys had said they'd meet her. They had left their room number on her phone, and when she reached out to pick it out of her bag, she noticed that it was off. It didn't bother her immensely, she hated being called when driving. But turning her phone completely off was more than unorthodox, it was dangerous. With the world she adopted came a set of rules. Always be contactable. Always have a way to ask for help.

But still. It wasn't a dangerous drive. She could have fallen back into old habits (unlikely, but possible) and switched it off to uphold her area of the law or whatever.

Not in the mood to guess andd knock on the doors near the gleaming black impala stretched out like it was sunbathing in the car park, Jody held down the button to turn it on.

She felt her throat twitch and the blood slow near the surface of her skin as bleeting noises introduced the calls she had missed. There were two from Dean, and three from Sam. And they were all from within the last 15 minutes.

"Oh, _shit_ ," Jody murmured, glancing up again, hoping to reach Dean and Sam quickly to find what the problem was. She spared a moment to check the room number before hopping out of her truck and half running to the door emblazoned with a brass _14._

She knocked quickly and waited, agitated, feet bouncing as movement from inside told her that the Winchesters weren't at their deathbeds. Or at least, not yet.

The door shuddered and Jody assumed one of them was looking out the spy whole, then chains clinked, the door was unlocked and Sam's face poked out from around the door.

"Hey, Jody."

"Sam," Jody smiled, stepping in as the door widened. She saw Dean next, watching her with almost expressionless eyes, if it weren't for the obvious worry. "Dean. What was with all the—"

It was who she saw third that stopped her in her tracks. Her eyes narrowed and she squared her shoulders, one hand on each hip. " _Alex_?"

"Hey, Jody," Alex greeted, picking a piece of Mars Bar Slice out a container. "Hungry?"

"Are you—" she turned to Sam. "Is she—? I can't..." She turned vehemently onto Dean. " _You let her stay_?"

"Hey, she only just arrived," Dean put his hands up in a surrendering position.

Jody was lost for words, leaving her to just gape as Alex chewed on the slice she'd been making when Jody had left her the second time. She pushed through her surprised and deployed her no nonsense tone. "That's it. You're going home. _Right_ now."

"No, I'm not," Alex answered. "I'm here now. I might as well help."

Jody gave her a look. "Ok, that is _not_ how it works. Alex, you're _16_. You are not going on some 007 Heist into the depths of perdition!"

Alex crossed her arms defiantly. "Oh, yeah? You guys are gonna need all the help you can get. And considering the fact that Hunter numbers have been pretty down in the past few years, I think you'll be needing it."

Sam blinked and Jody reflected that it was probably the most words that the two boys had heard Alex string together. She'd been decidedly against talking during their last case together.

"Alex, please," Jody said, looking to Sam and Dean, of whom both seemed pretty content just watching and not taking any sides. She returned her full attention to Alex. "You _don't need to do this_."

Alex looked angry now. The remains of her baked slice had been fiddled with to crumbs. They littered the table in front of her, in front of her deep frown and clenched fists. "Well, so, I'm supposed to just allow _you_ do go down? You don't think that this hard for me as well?"

Jody made as if to interject, but Alex cut her off harshly.

"I'm the _only_ person who'd gonna watch your back properly. You go down there without me," Alex looked hair at her adoptive mother. "How would I live with myself if I knew _I_ could have saved you?"

"Alex, that's fine," Jody said, moving forward, achingly aware of Sam and Dean avoiding each other's gazes. "You're allowed to think like that. But I'm far from helpless. I've got Sam and Dean to watch my back, and..." Jody swallowed, looking at Alex tenderly. "What if something happened to _you_?"

"That's not _fair_ ," Alex said angrily, and Jody could see tears forming in her eyes. "Why are _you_ allowed to use that argument, and not me? I gotta take care of you, Jody. You're all I got left." Her words were miserable when she repeated them. "You're all I got left."

Jody heard the door click and realised that the Winchester boys must have sensed that it was too private for them to listen in on.

Jody settled for just looking at her daughters face. Settled for just making her smile.

"I know it's selfish," Alex said. "But I can make my own choices. This is what I want."

"I can't be responsible for what might happen there," Jody told her.

"You're not," Alex promised. She gave a wry grin. "Anyway, aren't the Winchesters rubbing shoulders with the big birds in the canary cage? Anything happens and I'll be out in a jiffy."

Jody managed to smile. It petered down into a grimace, though, as she watched Alex determinedly look away.

"You're just a kid, Alex," Jody reminded her softly, voice barely raising above a whisper. "I know, I say it a lot. But it's true. You're _just a kid_. You have your whole life ahead of you. A future."

"What, because all _your_ years are totally spent," Alex stated flatly.

Jody didn't budge. "You know what I mean."

Alex shook her head. "You don't let me go with you and I'll follow you anyway. I will follow you into Hell and there's not a _thing_ you can do to stop me."

Jody felt her breath catch. She could tie Alex down and she'd just find some way to work through the bonds. She could lock her in and she'd just smash through the window or tunnel through the floor or bust through the plaster. Jody could send her back in a locked van and Alex would still manage a Houdini act.

"Alex," Jody's voice was low and intense. "You have to be _sure_. You have to be _certain_."

Alex gave a small smile. "Beyond all reasonable doubt, right?"

Jody raised an eyebrow and scoffed. "Right, just like that."

Jody thought about her strong willed daughter. She thought about Alex's strength and her determination and her Will. She thought about her despair and her loneliness and she thought about how tying someone down, forcing something on someone you loved didn't sound much like love at all.

But letting them follow you into the depths of the inferno didn't seem much like affection either.

Alex gave Jody a level stare. Her eyes were unblinking and clear. There was terror in them; she knew what was coming. There was a part of her that didn't care, and there was a part that cared an awful lot. It didn't matter what part won out in the end, because both agreed on something stronger.

She'd protect Jody in Lucifer's fires, Alex would take every step necessary.

"First sign of real danger, and I'm sending you out," Jody warned her. "By Cas or however, you will get out of there."

"But—"

"No buts, or you're not going at all," Jody's resolve was unwavering.

Alex wrinkled her nose. " _Everything_ will be dangerous."

"Oh God, you think so?"

Alex tried to hold down her smile and gave Jody a playful push. "Don't be smart, Sheriff." She sobered, but the sides of her mouth were still firmly fixed into a smile. "Ok. Ok, I agree."

"Awesome," Jody said. "And if you ever pull a stunt like this again, I'm sending you to military school."

Alex laughed, but it shuffled out when Jody raised an 'I'm-being-completely-serious' eyebrow.

Alex nodded to the door. "Think we should let in Tweedledum and Tweedledee?"

"Yeah," Jody straightened and headed off to the door. "We got a lot of planning to get through."

* * *

" _Yeah, I would come, but me and Dee are in New Zealand chasing down a lead for the Monkey Invasion right now._ "

"Wait, are you being serious?" Dean asked, frowning as he held his phone up to his ear. Then he paused. "How much is this call costing me?"

" _You don't even pay for your coffee. I've read the Supernatural books, Dean. I know about the Fraud and the felonies._ "

"Right," Dean agreed. "But New Zealand? Seems a bit far away from where the critters were coming from in the first place."

" _Yeah,_ " Charlie agreed. " _But we're pretty sure we've found a way to track openings to the Fairy Realms, and if we can get it—_ "

"You can get the doorway whatever," Dean summarised. "Gotcha. Anyway, gonna have to go. Saving the world. You know how it is."

" _Sure do_ ," Charlie agreed. " _Ah, saving the world. Feels as good as it sounds._ "

"Alright, see you later, Flash Gordon."

" _That's Wonder Woman to you, buster_."

"See ya, Charlie," Dean farewelled, amused.

He heard Charlie cackling on the other end of the line and a voice he recognised to be Dorothy. " _I know right?—oh, sorry Dean. Catch ya later, Homefry."_

Dean's finger pressed familiarly into the end call button and the screen flashed to announce that their conversation had ended. He tucked the phone into the pocket of his Jeans.

"Charlie, right?" He looked over to Sam, who was bent over a map of the woods they'd scoured, with Alex, who had a magnifying glass out and a bunch of markers.

Sam straightened, stretching, the side of his mouth upturning. "She and Dorothy still hunting that Oz thing?"

"Yeah, they think they've got a lead," Dean gestured vaguely around lead. "Well, sorta I guess."

"So what, that's how many now?" Alex asked, looking between the brothers.

"Well, Sarah said she'd send Cas down around now, and Garth is heading over from his and Bess's 'romantic Getaway' in Alaska."

"Those exist?" Alex asked, unconvinced.

"Yeah, I'm with you on that one," Dean muttered, grabbing a piece of the slice Alex had made and taking a bite.

"Well, apparently they do for werewolves," Sam answered. "He should be here soon. Tomorrow or late tonight."

"So that's, what?" Alex did a mental calculation. "Five hunters, one angel?"

"Stealth mission, black ops style," Dean agreed, taking another piece. His words were muffled with the food. "The'e a' _ama'ing_ by 'e 'ay."

"Wanna repeat that?" Sam asked. "I don't think anyone heard anything over all the terrible manners and general disgustingness."

Dean swallowed his mouthful. "You flatter me, Sammy."

Jody came out from the bathroom where she'd be freshening herself up from her drive from Sioux Falls, shirt changed and hair brushed.

"So," she pulled her sleeves up and made her way over to the table. "What's the plan?"

* * *

"Hello Dean." Cas's voice was its usual gravel. "Hello Sam. Jody, Alex, it is good to  meet you."

"Hey Cas," Jody smiled at him, her eyes crinkling up at the sides as she took him in. "The boys talk about you all the time."

"Oh," Cas said, looking quickly over at Sam and Dean, who had waved in welcome, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "That is...good. And you as well, they have spoken a lot of."

"I should hope so," Jody joked.

"How's Heaven?" Sam asked, taking a seat at the end of Dean's bed, while Cas took his and the other three rested against the walls. The small space seemed a lot smaller with the four people in it, but it was manageable at Sam's end. All he could feel was apprehension, and not from the enclosed spaces. He was ok with them—he had to be. But there were four people in that room who weren't him. And they were going to go through the same things as he was, and they were going to go to the depths of Hell at his and Dean's request.

"Heaven is..." Cas placed his hands on his knees as he struggled for the right word. "Good," he settled for. Then he smiled, that small smile he reserved for the things about humanity that amazed him and humbled him in equal measure. "Finally, _finally_ good."

"That's good, Cas," Dean said. He moved forward, settling next to Sam across from Cas on his bed. "Sarah give us anything to work with?"

Cas brightened, nodding and pushing his hand into his trench coat. He brought out two parcels, one that turned out, to be at closer inspection, a tightly furled scroll.

"A map," Cas flourished. "That will create an image of wherever you are."

"And that will work in Hell?" Dean asked, curious, reaching over and opening it, eyes flicking over the page as he took in the map of their current surrounds. "Hell, Cas. This is amazing."

"I know," Cas said.

"Where'd you get it?" Sam asked, looking over with Dean. He could see the motel, all the streets around them spider webbing out and in tiny writing, the names of the shops on the street in the nearby town.

"Blathazar had it hidden with all the things he stole from Heaven," Cas said.

"Oh, shit, really?" Sam asked, intrigued. "Where?"

"Um, who's Blathazar?" Alex asked, sticking her hand up like she was in class.

"Balthazar was an angel loyal to me while Raphael was in charge of Heaven," Cas said, nonplussed. He turned back to Sam. "Under the wreckage of the titanic."

"And no one ever found it?"

"He was have taken measures, but no," Cas said.

"Wait, I thought he was stealing weapons," Dean frowned, confused. "I don't really know how a map could really be a _weapon_ , right?"

"In the wrong hands, this could be incredibly damaging," Cas suggested. Then he shrugged. "I'm not sure. And we'll never get the chance to ask him."

"Right!" Sam said awkwardly, clearing his throat. "That's probably a good note to ask what the next thing is."

"It's a key that can unlock anything," Cas said, untangling it and showing it to them, dangling the black metal from his fingers.

Sam studied it, coming up with obsidian and really, _really_ old. " _Any_ door?"

Cas nodded. "Including the doors to Hell."

Sam and Dean shared a grin. Sam looked back at Cas. "Awesome."

* * *

"How many, sorry?"

"Uh, three in the end wasn't it?" Dean asked, glancing around to the gathered group to see if anyone had a clearer idea than him.

"Four," Garth corrected. "Mine, yours, Sam's, Cas's."

Sam shook his head and wrote it down. "Still can't believe you managed to land an Angel Blade, dude."

Garth shrugged nonchalantly. "What can I say? I'm amazing."

"It helps that a lot were lost during the fall and the following year," Cas mentioned. He looked uncomfortable, but not angry or upset at the mention of the fall. So either he'd repressed his angst like a true adopted Winchester, or was trying to see the best in a good situation. Bitterly, Sam knew which one was more likely.

"Ok, so, we start off—"

"Here," Sam pointed to the parking lot where they had left the impala the first time. It was close by to the motel and diner, and Sam let his finger drag over it discretely as he took his hand off.

"Ok," Jody nodded. "And then—"

"Hiking," Garth piped in. "My favourite."

They all looked at him and blinked, nearly in synch. Garth was unfazed as he always was, beaming at each of them in that unreachable happiness he'd discovered. On the day after Cas had arrived, Garth had come rearing in and now, on the fifth, he showed no signs of slowing down. He'd hounded them all with pictures of Bess and him in Alaska over food Cas had gone out to buy, and kept up a conversation decently into the night. That is until even Alex was begging for reprieve.

"I hope you're joking," Dean informed him.

"No way, Hiking and camping..." he smiled and looked lazily across the room, all of whom were frowning at him, including Cas. "It's the dream."

"Walking for a very long time does not sound enjoyable," Cas stated.

"Well, my friend, that's because you haven't tasted the simple joys of it," Garth sighed.

"Blisters, always being too hot or too cold, nature, bugs, wild animals..." Alex listed off her fingers. "Sounds like a blast."

"Ok, guys, back to the plan," Jody sighed. Without her there to remind them to turn back to the books, of which were lining the table in Sam and Dean's room. On the wall maps of the area were pinned, and then the map that showed the area of any given place was held safely in Cas's pocket, the very tip of the paper making its way out of the top. The key, as well, was in the angels safekeeping.

"Right," Sam said, spreading his hands across the table as he leant down, strands of hair catching themselves on his eyelashes. His shoulders hunched and he worked his jaw as he took in everything they'd put together. "So, I assume we want to kill all the Hell Hounds."

"Would make it easier," Dean commented, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed against his chest.

"Alright, done," Sam said, scribbling it down onto their list. "Now, next, would be..."

"The key," Cas said, tucking his hand into the pocket where it was held.

"Ok," Sam scribbled that down.

Dean frowned. "Isn't that one sort of a given?"

Sam glanced up and frowned. "Dean—seriously. Can you stop? You're totally messing with my system here."

Dean just smiled and Sam rolled his eyes.

"And then we enter Hell," Alex said simply, only slightly pale, which Sam took to mean either she was a lot braver than them, or a lot more foolish. She certainly looked a lot better than Garth, who looked close to vomiting, and Cas, who'd drawn up deathly pale.

"Sariel told me to remind you that we will not be able to stay long," Cas warned. "Anymore than three hours and we will have the whole of Hell on our tails."

"Time limit," Sam said, a sour taste forming at the back of his mouth. "Brilliant."

He scribbled that down as well, and was relieved when Dean left  out the douchey comment.

"Then?" Jody asked, looking from Cas to Sam, from Sam to Dean and then to Garth. She hovered protectively by Alex, arm slightly in front, shoulder just higher. Sam recognised that pose, and after acknowledging that, he made sure he avoided Dean's eye. When no one answered, she hit again. "And _then_?"

"Then we follow the map," Sam said grimly. "And try and get out of there in three hours."

"Gonna be pretty touch and go," Dean said. Then he shrugged. "That's cool. I've worked with less."

Jody raised her eyebrows and looked at Dean for an extended second. Then she shook her head. "Well, we're all damned anyway."

* * *

The moon crept beneath the clouds like a scolded dog. The stars littered after it, the flowers thrown by the first of a wedding procession, beautiful women dressed to the nines making their way to an altar.

Dean didn't care about any of that. He'd long ago give up dreams of the stars and the universe. Sure, like every kid during the 80's,when sci fi was really going for its heyday, he'd wanted to be an astronaut. He'd tell stories to Sam, while they dozed off to sleep, and each word would get slower and slower as the night progressed. About he and Dean racing through the stars, saving alien civilisations and humanity. Doing everything in their powers to be heroes.

A few years ago and Dean would have said that at least they got the hero part down. Now, even he wasn't sure.

The flames of the holy oil crackled in front of him. Next to Dean, the glasses sat to cool, where they'd been run through the fire. Five pairs, one for each of them save Cas, who could see Hell Hounds with his grace-vision.

"You ok?" Sam asked, heading out to stand next to him. It was an ugly, cold night, and Dean was distracting himself by staring into nothingness. Into the pit of darkness extending from the objectless place in front of them.

Dean accepted Sam's offer of a beer and screwed the lid off with a practised turn of his wrist. These bottles weren't too bad, but the serration still burnt his palm. He ignored it, though, cooling it against the condensed glass and took down a drink of the stuff.

The flames were nearly dead now, but alive enough that a wind in equal parts friendly and savage could bring it back. But the oil was dying out and soon there would be no fuel, no matter what the wind did.

"That well, huh?" Sam asked tiredly, leaning against one of the poles keeping the roof over the doorways up. He took a healthy swig of his own beer. "I'm with you on that one."

"It's easy to forget with them, isn't it?" Dean asked, eyes still fixed to a place just beyond the impala, just beyond the car park. He chuckled and too another mouthful. "They're pretty chipper for a bunch of people a day away from hiking."

Dean sensed Sam's unconscious clenching dramatically relaxing. Sam hadn't wanted to talk about it. He could talk about a lot of things, he could talk about them, and their father and their mother, but there were people in that group who went beyond that.

Sam's voice was hesitant when he spoke, and Dean suddenly wished his brother wasn't such a talkative drunk. "You think...you reckon Jess is down there?"

Dean hesitated before answering. "I dunno. You asked Cas?"

"Yeah, course." Sam scoffed, and Dean could tell that he totally hadn't. He swallowed. "I hope not."

"Sam," Dean turned to his brother.

But Sam shook his head. "Don't. It's ok." He gave Dean a small smile. "I'm ok."

"What do you think we're gonna see down there?" Dean asked, taking another drink and feeling that irritating ache when he noticed how low the bottle was getting. He'd been trying so hard to kick all the alcohol, but whenever something bad happened or was coming, it always fought for purchase.

Which was, admittedly, always.

"Dunno," Sam answered morosely, following Dean's lead and downing another mouthful of beer. He smiled, casting Dean a side eye. "I'm pretty sure last time I was down there, this chick thought I was Jesus."

"Hm," Dean agreed, casting a critical eye over Sam's features. He didn't answer beyond that and just took another drink. His bottle was getting dangerously low, but he wouldn't ask for another one. It was already very late, and he needed to be as sober and as in control as possible for tomorrow.

"Madison's in purgatory," Sam said, looking up to the starless sky, embracing what Dean couldn't. He didn't look down as he kept talking. "I mean, she has to be, right?"

"Unless—" Dean cut himself off, clearing his throat and briefing that it would probably not help matters to bring that up.

"Unless she got killed there, yeah," Sam finished for him dully, finally looking back from the moon and the stars and the sky. The fingers around his bottle were growing tired, Dean could see his hand relax. He wondered whether the bottle would fall, and if it fell, what would happen to the glass.

Breeze shuddered against the grass and across the parking lot, glass from a smashed bottle scraped along the ground.

"I'm sort of...worried, Sam," Dean finally said, and he cleared his throat when he realised how raw his words were, like a naked blade lying, defenceless and corruptible in the snow. "Uh, about the...the mark of Cain."

"Why?" Sam asked, frowning. "You still have _weeks_ left, don't you? That's heaps of time to find someone worthy."

Dean raised his eyebrow, but the hopeful glint in Sam's eye didn't die.

Dean sighed, and the air from his mouth turned white against the darkness of the sky. "I called Missouri. She agreed with me."

"About what?"

"That all this...violence and anger," Dean swallowed. "She said it was making it push through, making it easier for it to...come back."

"And when it comes back..." Sam sounded out, blinking away wetness from his eyes.

"I won't be me," Dean said simply. "I won't be me anymore, Sammy. And I'll be too far gone to care."

"How long did she say you got?" Sam's voice was emotionless, and Dean was glad. It was easier this way, to keep things practical and theoretical.

"A week at the least," Dean said carefully. "Two weeks, tops."

Sam took in a sharp breath of air. He nodded, looking down. The last of the holy fire blinked and then shuddered off, and the world was that much darker for it. "Ok. Then we don't sleep till we find someone. We don't stop. We don't...we _don't_..." _Give up._

"Ok," Dean said, like he didn't believe it, but that he wanted to. Badly. Desperately. He repeated it. "Ok."

Sam let the silence extend. He let it curl around them. Tomorrow they would be saving the souls of their friends and their family. They knew exactly what was coming, and they had no idea.

"So, Alex is going a bit stir crazy," Dean said light heartedly. He drained the last of his beer and let the bottle hang loosely at his fingertips.

Sam let out a huff of laughter. "Yeah, I don't blame her. It can get crowded with so many people."

"She asked me where the nearest place to get whoopie cushions was this morning," Dean advised, smirking.

"Wait, seriously?" Sam asked. "What did you say?"

Dean shrugged. "You'll just have to wait and see, Sammy."

Sam smiled, and craned his neck again to look up to that starless sky, that moonless expanse. The clouds rolled along on the back draft of the coming Winter, and despite how cold it was becoming, Dean didn't want to leave. If he stayed here, with Sam, they could talk and laugh and the next day might never come. The sun would never tough the horizon, and this night would continue forever.

But the sun would eventually rise, and they'd be all the more unprepared for it.

"C'mon," Dean nodded over to the door and Sam nodded, draining the rest of his beer before, letting out a shuddering breath that steamed white in front of him, he turned and followed Dean into the warmth.

* * *

"Ok, how we lookin', Alex?" Dean asked, pushing through another shrub, the surroundings they were walking through irritatingly familiar. He knew it was unlikely that they were anywhere near where they would have run to get away from the Hell Hounds the first time they'd come, but the trees leant in the same way and the leaves shaved off the right shade of green, the sinking sun lengthened the bark on the trees so that like crack crevices along the earth, black lines cast themselves about the brown wood.

Alex had been designated map reader, a sort of less shiny thing to distract her from the real shiny things. Jody had been adamant about Alex not being given one of the blades they had in their collection until they arrived at the Hell Gate. Dean guessed why; Alex was desperate to prove that she was a worthy part of the Justice League, but proving that might also end up causing premature death. At least in Hell, the lines were blurred, and resuscitation would be ignored by Death, at least of their friends. But here, in the world, where the slinking in of night held onto the cold frost Dean and Sam had felt as they'd stood side by side the night before, the worlds were separate.

_"Death and Life, as I'm sure you know, have a line drawn between them. Thick in the sand. Once you move one way, you can't go back. Sometimes people get caught on the line, they toe either side, but in the end, they always move on. The bowl of the dead grows, the fields of the living expand. Until both sides are toe to heel, staring in one direction."_

_"Not you. Not you and Sam, though. You stand on either side, but you face in. Face to face, eye to eye, close enough to touch each other."_

Dean felt a thrill run down his back, and he watched Sam carefully, noting how his brother held himself. That setting of feet that he had memorised, that odd sway every few metres that Dean had always just accepted.

"We're close," Cas answered for Alex, he was tense, looking around himself like he expected someone to jump out from behind him, the long shadows casting his features into even more doubt. His shoulders were slightly hunched, and Dean had thought it best not to mention that he'd been fiddling with his angel sword for the last hour.

"Yeah, thanks for that one," Alex frowned. She sighed and looked up to Dean. "Cas is right. We _are_ close."

"Three miles yet?" Sam asked, looking around. He was keenly invested into their surroundings, and Dean wondered if he was keeping a lookout for the campsite that he, Sarah and Dean had all stayed after Sam...after they'd come for the first time.

"Nearly," Alex said easily, tracing her finger along the paper. "Another half mile and we'll have reached the radius."

"Ok," Sam nodded.

"Right, so when we hit the mark, we probably won't have much trouble till we get really close," Dean instructed. "Cas, you lead Jody and Garth from the left, and me and Sam will come around from the right." He looked directly at Alex. "Alex, you stay back until we give the signal."

"Sounds fool proof," Alex muttered., shoving her foot into the dirt but not voicing her complaints.

"We got it," Jody nodded. He looked around. The surroundings hadn't changed as they walked, but at the time of day that it had come down to, colours were shifting rapidly. It'd taken them a day to hike for the first time, with no way of knowing exactly where the Hell Gate was, and a few hours less with Sarah, who could be relied upon for her expertise and gentle modifying of the world so that they'd always have a path to follow.

Cas knew the woods as well as could be expected, and all of them were fighting fit and strong enough to tackle the trek, but more people inevitably led to more stops. And time dragged on.

They headed off again, this time Sam next to Cas in the lead. Alex stood a little beside them, tracking their journey with a slide of her finger and Garth, Dean and Jody brought up the rear.

"We're gonna be ok, you know," Jody said to Dean, turning to him as she stepped over a log, smiling. "We spent six days planning this. It's all going to be fine."

Dean tensed his neck and looked dead ahead. At Sam, who was laughing at something Alex had said, and at Cas, who was looking across at Sam laughing with a smile. He couldn't lose them, either of them. And then Garth, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet and had thus given away how nervous he was, and then Jody, all her smiles and her memories. "How can you be sure about that?"

Dean finally looked over, just as she looked away. She was staring dejectedly after Alex, who had taken position between Sam and Cas and was pointing to something on her map. "Because I have to."

"Because it's just how it's gonna be," Garth said, smiling at Dean, shrugging. "Everything _has_ to work out, dude. Because it's what we deserve."

Dean knew Garth was trying to comfort him, but he wished he didn't. The world rarely gave what it's inhabitants deserved. The world rarely gave at all. Not without taking. It'd wrench away some kings, and return to you with an Ace and a smile. And that was that.

Every good thing demanded payment. And Dean was terrified to see what the payment would be this time.

* * *

Jody announced her reappearance with a storm of waving bushes. She stumbled over a log on the ground but caught herself and squatted down next to Sam as they scoped out at the three mile radius.

"Alex ok?" Dean asked, glancing back to where he knew the sullen teen was sitting. Jody had insisted it best that they don't give her an angel blade, because Alex would just see that as an invitation to come running after them. Instead they'd surrounded her with a layer of salt and a layer of goofer dust and waved goodbye.

Jody sighed. "She's fine. Just cranky." Then she smirked, looking over at the group. "Said if we were bringing Garth, then we should be bringing her."

"Hey!" Garth exclaimed. "I have a _very specific skill set_."

"What's that?" Dean asked. "Getting drunk off one bottle of beer?"

"Wait, seriously?" Jody asked, raising her eyebrows.

Next to him, Cas shifted. Dean knew his friend was nervous, he kept tapping the pocket that held the key and fiddled with the sleeve that hid the angel blade. Cas could more than take care of himself, and if he were nervous, then Dean didn't have a chance. He was glad Cas _had_ kept it to himself, because inspiring bravery in people was difficult when the strongest thing in the universe started getting in touch with its mortality.

"You good?" Dean asked anyway, keeping his voice low.

"Fine. I just feel..." as trailed off, still looking dead towards the Hell Gate. "Anxious."

Dean paused. "Great."

"Ok, are we ready?" Sam asked, standing up and moving off to the right and standing next to Dean. "We can't see any Hounds yet, but they're probably closer to the mouth anyway. Remember the plan?"

"We got it, man," Garth assured them.

Cas drew up as well, and Jody and Garth followed suit, standing next to each other. "We will see each other soon."

"Course," Dean grinned. "We always do."

* * *

Boot crunched recklessly on twig and leaf as the two brothers made their way, creating a beeline for the entrance to Hell. Neither showed how they felt about being so obviously close to the place where Sam had almost died, but there was a shadow that cast across their faces and a tautness to the skin across their cheeks. Like the pain of remembering was physically altering them.

"You ready?" Sam asked, and by the way he spoke and how he stood, Dean knew that Sam was seriously nervous. He was breathless, and his eyes were nearly wide with fright.

"As I'll ever be," Dean answered shortly.

"Cas knows what to do?" Sam asked, pulling Ruby's knife out of his back pocket.

"Quit worrying, he's got it," Dean said, and his any urgency was wiped out by a wry grin and his patented lazy grin.

Sam surely knew that Dean was putting up a front. He had to know, because if last night had taught Dean anything, it was that he was readable. And no one was better at reading him than his little brother. But Sam showed off _his_ patented uncomfortable little grin, so whatever he was thinking, he _wanted_ to be thinking something different.

"Got your glasses, Clark?" Sam asked, pulling his own out of the pocket of his jacket. He pushed them onto his face and blinked, making a face. "Ugh. You couldn't have gotten some for me that _weren't_ for the blindest person on the planet?"

"Sorry about that," Dean said, smiling in a very non-apologetic way. He copied Sam, pulling his glasses out and putting them on. His eyesight blurred but it wasn't to the disorientation that Sam was struggling with.

Sam blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes under his glasses with his fingers, the frames rising up against his hand and then sighed, blinking again.

"You right?" Dean asked, amused.

"Fine," Sam sighed. "I'll be fine."

Dean glanced around them. Their steady pace had put them a mile out before they'd split up, and he knew the hell hounds were disinclined to move away so early. He couldn't see anything, no paw or red flashing eyes, no snarling teeth or blue flames licking along the fur like it was made of fire.

"Should we shoot or something?" Sam suggested. "Let them know where to find us?"

"They know we're coming," Dean shook his head. "If they'd wanted to attack us here, they would have come."

"They're not going to be drawn out, are they?" Sam asked grimly.

Dean sighed and nodded. "Guess we gotta do it the hard way."

"Fantastic."

* * *

Dean saw the Hell Hound first, but Sam stumbled onto it quickly after him. Dean's hand came out, palm flat to the ground, signalling that the Hound was near, and with a squint of his eyes through his useless glasses, Sam saw it as well. It was doing its best to keep quiet, and Dean was using its self assuredness against it. Any obvious movements and the Hound would leap out an attack them and whatever advantage the two would have had would be lost.

Sam walked along idly, feeling every clench of his muscles, ever tingle in his finger and flutter of his eyelid. Even the tiniest movement felt consequential. Even the smallest spark could ignite the dog into attacking. And Sam was _certain_ that it was written, in black and white, all over his face.

He tripped over the uneven ground, disorientated for a moment by the crapiness of the glasses, taking a moment to take care of himself.

"You good, dude?" Dean asked, voice nonchalant, but now that his face was away from the Hound, his eyes were wide with meaning. _Don't give us away._

"Yeah, just tripped," Sam said quickly, hoping to convey that he hadn't honestly fallen because of the dog just a few metres away. The Hound from the depths of Hell that had had a brother who'd dug it's claws into Sam's chest and _ripped—_

"Let's keep going," Sam said, and it must have been too hurriedly, because the Hell Hound shifted. Going from Dean's side of the trail to Sam's. Both tried their best to watch it without making it obvious that they could see it.

"Shit—weather we're having, isn't it?" Dean managed, glancing up at the gathering grey between the leaves. They started walking again, and Sam nearly cursed when he saw Dean trying to steer himself into Sam's position. He wouldn't be able to, though. There was no way he could do it without giving up that they knew what the Hell Hound was doing.

Sam shrugged and played along. "I don't know, we've had worse."

"Man, I hate hiking," Dean said sourly, knocking a rock from the ground with his foot and kicked it ahead of them, where it fell between two roots, right by the paws of the Hellish Dog. They were close, but slowing down the pace just meant delaying the inevitable.

Five metres away, and Sam's heart was hammering hard at his ribs. He could feel sweat on his palms, and his breathing hitch. What the hell was wrong with him? He'd been all for taking the Hell Hounds the night before. And when they were scouting the place out, hadn't it been _Dean_ who convinced him to leave, to come back with more people?

Then why was there this _ringing_ in his head? Where was that quiet confidence he'd worked so hard to capture?

Two metres and his grip on the handle of the knife Ruby had given to him and been killed by increased tenfold. He didn't understand why the Hound didn't see his shaking hands or paled skin, his extra breaths or hear his quickened heartbeat. Even he could hear it, a loud thumping over the quiet of the forest.

One metre and Sam felt himself going faint. They were so close now, and the claws, laced as they were in blue flame, were more visible than ever. Sam had to avert his gaze.

50 centimetres. One more step and Dean would give the sign...

"Now!" Dean ordered, and with a snap Sam span the knife in his hand and then lashed out with it, catching the dog underneath the chin. It wailed, pitifully, a long drawn out whine as Sam's knife didn't quite make the mark. It tried to force its way out, legs crouching and preparing to jump, before Dean clamped down onto it, forcing the dog onto its stomach. Sam tried again, and this time, with a surgeons precision, he got it right. The drawn out whine was caught suddenly short, and black blood sprayed out from the dismembered artery.

Sam drew away and meekly helped Dean up, not meeting his brother's questioning look as they watched the hound flicker in front of them and then disappear completely. All that remained was a pile of black blood, thick and oozing, reeking of sulfur.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean asked, and Sam looked up when Dean's voice was anything but angry. "Dude, if you're gonna choke, you gotta go back."

"What?" Sam demanded. "No! You have to be kidding me. I'm staying."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Seriously, Sam. You hesitate and everyone could die."

"I _know_ what's at stake, Dean," Sam snapped. "I get it."

"You get it?" Dean asked, moving forward, looking up into Sam's eyes with a burning intensity. "You get that these are our friends souls we're talking about? You get that these are our _parents_ souls? You get that this is _Mom's_ soul?"

Sam looked away at his last question, because he'd never thought of it like that. The whole crusade, killing the Yellow Eyed Demon, hunting down every evil thing that crossed their path, their whole lives being this one long, never ending road trip, came down to their mom. And how she had died over Sam's nursery just over 31 years ago. And now they were finally sending her to a rest.

"I got this," Sam said determinedly. He met Dean's eyes fiercely. "I _promise_."

"Good," Dean said, still nonchalant, but there was something in the eyes behind his glasses, something in the grip around his angel blade. "Because they're coming."

Like he was talking about going to bed, like he was talking about going to breakfast at the diner. His eyes met Sam's in a calm clarity, and Sam nodded back. The wind pushed the hair out of their faces as they turned to look to where they were going, and they prayed that this time, it wouldn't change direction.

* * *

Dean ducked as Sam threw his knife into the throat of the Hound bounding up to them. It cut in but didn't make a purchase, and the Hell Hound shook it off. Sam swore and bounded around to the knife, just as, with a snarl, Dean thrust his blade up and through the Hounds throat.

As it fell and died, Sam stood next to Dean, watching it fizzle into nothing, clutching the dropped knife.

The hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood up as the howls of the Hell Hounds sounded out across the forest, the dying light catching the howl on the air, like the wind flowed harsher and cooler with the beckon of the Hounds of Hell.

"Shit," Dean murmured.

"Think they've spotted us yet?" Sam asked grimly, looking around, blinking more often than he usually did to try and adjust his eyes to the glasses.

"I think they're pissed as hell," Dean replied, eyes searching through the undergrowth in front of them for a glimpse of that blue fire.

"C'mon," Sam nodded his head. "We're nearly there. We're nearly at the Hell Gate."

They followed through the trees, Sam carefully tracing after Dean's step, the low light doing nothing for his poor sight.

The merged through a group of trees before they saw it, the Gate, through another 50 metres or so of tree land, and then a circle of free area, of grass and churned up ground.

"I wonder if our packs are still here," Sam muttered, looking across to Dean.

Dean's chest thrummed with a laugh and despite the low visibility, he looked over to where he remembered the log where the bags were hidden to be. "Imagine that."

"Ok, ready?" Sam asked, peering through the trees.

Dean made a disgruntled sound. "Ugh. I hate this plan."

Sam didn't look at him as he pushed himself on. "Everyone hates this plan."

Dean rolled his eyes and followed after him, standing a few steps in front of Sam, just enough to lead him the way. The sun was truly on its way to setting now and the shadows were at their longest and deepest.

The two brothers emerged from the bushes without regard. They walked slowly up to where the hounds were, side by side over the even ground. There were four, so management must have wanted to up the ante after Sam and Dean's first half-attempt.

The Hell Gate was so simple, if it wasn't for the Hounds, they'd assume it was there by accident, left over from an old fashioned hideaway, just a metal door with nothing on the other side.

Sam saw it before Dean did, so his arm lashed out and caught Dean in the middle of the chest just as the Hell Hound closest to them bared it's teeth and prepared it's haunches.

But neither moved.

They let one forward first, and the brothers took care of it efficiently. It was strong, but they'd had practise and a determination like they'd never had before. These were their friends they were fighting for, these weren't just the faceless masses of the thousands of humans, they were real. Reals as their thudding hearts, real as the adrenalin searing their veins.

As it leapt up, Sam pushed out of the way and with a grunt, baring his teeth, Dean slashed his dirtied blade through the Hell Hounds head. Neither watched as it fell to the ground between them, sparking before disappearing into nothingness.

When all three remaining Hell Hounds charged with reckless abandon, the brothers charged forward.

As it did, they didn't see Cas, Jody and Garth sneak towards the door, Cas holding his hand in a fist around a tiny object, of which Dean assumed was the key. Jody was guarding his back, one of the Angel blades in her hand, with the other in Garth's. Cas's peeked out of the bottom of his sleeve as he glanced back, and Dean met his eyes for a moment, before reality slammed back, and both turned to what they were doing.

One forced it's way at Sam, and he would have fallen if Dean hadn't caught his arm, forcing him to his feet, swinging his blade around and knocking it into the Hounds head, shouting their way through the line.

From behind them they huddled next to Jody and Garth, where they brandished their weapons and the Hounds snarled.

"They won't _attack_ , right?" Jody asked weakly, staring at the one nearest to her. Dean could tell that she knew even armed, _one_ of the Hounds could take them, take _all_ of them.

Well, Dean smirked at the nearest one. On a bad day.

And Hell yawned up behind them, and Cas was working the key into the lock.

And the Hounds had one objective, and that was to guard Hell. Guard it despite and to death.

So without a second passing between Jody asking, the Hounds attacked, and the four took them on.

Sam kicked out at  a hound, but Dean focused on the one Garth was tangling with. Garth brandished it back with a savage cut of his blade, but it made no purchase, and all he succeeded in doing was flattening the ears of the Hell Hound and an angry growl. Dean jerked forward, but it was too late, the Hound knocked Garth to the ground, and with the fall, his glasses dropped off, crunching under his head.

With a cry, Dean forced the Hell Hound off Garth's body and stuck the blade into its throat, standing and not turning back to watch as it disappeared.

Dean turned to look at Sam, who was handling his Hound with the promised care. All the shaking Dean had seen was gone, locked away as Sam took down the glorified pit bull, finally overcoming it and sticking Ruby's knife through its jaw and up through its head.

Garth clambered up, and all three looked to where Jody was.

Everyone turned _very_ still.

She edged around it, caught in an impasse, her glasses still on, but dangling precariously at the tip of her nose. Any sudden movement and they would fall.

"Crap," Sam whispered, watching her, moving slowly away from the place he'd killed the Hell Hound towards Jody.

A warning growl from the Hell Hound cut him off.

Jody glanced over and the movement sent the glasses further down her nose.

"Jo—" Garth tried, but the warning growl echoed again. He gritted his teeth and went for it. "Jody, can you see?"

Jody shook her head slowly. "Not really."

And the Hound pounced.

Like Garth, her glasses flew off in her panic, flinging off into the dirt, but unlike Garth, none of them were near enough to help her. And when her blade fell, Dean started to move, as fast as he could, feet digging into the ground. As Sam desperately prepared to throw his knife, just as Dean started to really start running, a dark dash sprinted across from the now utterly dark cover of foliage and tackled the hound off Jody with a might _push_.

The two fell across the ground, and a hand reached out and caught the angel blade. With a grunt, it slashed up and caught the Hell Hound between the jugular and the rest of the muscle and veins of its neck, effectively cutting its barks and growls off.

Everyone watched, including Cas, who'd turned away from opening the door to try help Jody, as Alex stood. She pulled the knife out of the Hound with a grunt and stood as it disappeared. She held the angel blade meekly, glancing over at Jody, who was slowly pulling herself to her feet.

She stared at her. " _Alex_?"

Alex winced. "Hi?"

"What the _Hell_?" Jody demanded, walking forward a little unsteadily on her feet. "I told you to _wait_."

Alex squared her hips and folded her arms impetuously, hand still tight around the angel blade. "If I'd stayed, you would have been _dead_."

" _You_ could have died!" Jody reminded her, nearly yelling, her voice tight, angry.

"Yeah, well, I _didn't_."

Jody let out a frustrated noise at the back of her throat. "Why won't you _listen_ to me?"

"Because you _never_ listen to me!" Alex shouted back, her voice echoing over the forest, where night had fallen, where the world had gone dark and mysterious. "I can _handle_ this!"

"And _this_ is why I didn't want you to come!" Jody snarled back. "I told you to wait, I told you to obey _every order I gave you_."

"I I had, you'd _be dead_!"

"How long were you following us?" Jody demanded.

Alex turned suddenly awkward, finally breaking eye contact with her furious adoptive mother. "I, uh...a while."

Jody let out a lungful of air steadily and looking at the ground gathering herself. Finally, she looked up, and Alex caught her eye. "Thank you. For saving me."

Alex fidgeted. "It's ok."

"Um. I...I've managed to open it," Cas cleared his throat awkwardly, and all of them turned to look at him. The angel held up the key and felt at the door, holding his hand just over the surface. "It's ready to be opened."

"How'd you figure that one our?" Dean asked, frowning at it. He couldn't see a key hole anywhere. Not even a niche for Cas to have snuck the thing in.

"Well, I manipulated my grace—"

It sounded like a long rant, so Dean cut him off. "Alright, thanks buddy." He looked out at everyone. From Garth, who was pale and bleeding across his chest, to Jody, who had a scratch along her shoulder and a three clawed rip in her shirt. To Alex, still holding Jody's angel blade and staring defiantly at the doorway, and then to Sam, who was watching him in turn, eyes quiet and probing.

_This is it. This is it._

"Ok," Dean nodded to everyone. "Are we ready?"

"As we'll ever be," Garth muttered, eyes fearful as he beheld the door.

Dean turned to Cas, and with a nod, Cas turned back to the door. His hand hit the surface, and with a heave, the door swung open.

* * *

When Sam opened his eyes, he wished he hadn't.

Hell was worse than he remembered, and where they were seemed to be one of the cleaner ends of town.

It felt like they were in the bottom of a pit, high walls around them and nothingness ahead. Up above there was no ceiling, just an endless call of grey and green, with lines crisscrossing it that, after a second, Sam recognised as linked chains.

"Ok, Cas," Dean's voice wobbled in the middle but held firm. "The map."

Cas spread it out, the least perturbed of the group.

Garth had grown deadly quiet, his already pale pallor worsening by the second. He drew close to behind Dean and shifted inside the bubble of human warmth. Jody and Alex were side by side, arms brushing and looking around. Alex's tight grip on her blade was the only thing that really gave her away. Her face was a perfect mask of nonchalance, and Sam hoped she'd be able to keep that bravery up.

"We're here," Cas pointed to the centremost point, a thick black X. He frowned as he looked down at the map, of which was hard to read, faded lines crisscrossing hard lines, with black fading from soft to harsh randomly throughout.

"And this map is impossible to read," Dean stated, crouching down next to the angel.

Cas grimaced and spread his palm, a blue light emanating from the centre, spilling across it like a flash light. He reached down and tapped it, and like a camera coming into focus, lines faded and others hardened, and a ready to read map was before them.

"Whoa," Sam bent down, squinting at it, before finally pulling his glasses off. Garth and Jody already had them stored in their clothes. "How'd you know to do that?"

"Hell, much like Heaven, is constantly changing and building on itself, crashing down and reforming," Cas explained. "This is how Hell looked when I touched it a few moments ago, and this," he touched it again, and the lines ever-so-slightly adjusted themselves. "Is how it looks now."

"So where do we want to go?" Jody, kneeling, asked, with Alex following her lead, bending over Jody's shoulder. "Where is it most likely to be?"

Cas's hand lit up, and he held it over a group of tightly interlocking lines. "Here looks like a good place to start."

"It also looks busy," Sam said grimly.

"What'll happen if we meet a demon down here?" Garth asked, breaking his silence.

"They'll be unstoppable," Cas said basically, looking up at the werewolf. "When I came down to save Dean, I could only hold them at bay as I pulled him out of hell."

"Well, good thing you're here now," Jody said, flashing him a tight smile.

Cas smiled unsurely back.

"Ok, so we head there," Dean summarised, standing up, glancing at the map and then at the way they'd have to move. He glanced back down to the others, who were following his lead as Cas picked the map up again, the touch if his fingers moving the maps position again.

"We don't have much time," Alex stated, watching as the lines moved. "If we don't go soon, the way will be lost."

"She's right," Cas said, his blue eyes even more piercing and brilliant in the low light. Sam looked across at the angel, and he nodded once. "We have to start moving."

And so they did.

Alex was handed the map, standing next to Cas at the front of the line, who reached over idly every now and again to turn the map to a more constant image of their surroundings. Alex was chattering nervously to him, and he was responding in his low, thunderous voice.

Sam stood beside Dean, and they moved on.

* * *

Sam was alone when his breaths came out in puffs of steam, moving through the air in a white fog, catching the few glimpses of low light before disappearing into nothingness.

It was _freezing_ , the chill stole through his arms and slowed his blood, his heart beat came softer and slower, and every breath was a thundering in his ears. He looked around, and felt how slow his movements had become when he realised he was alone.

Hell was still the same. A never ending black depth in front and a never ending black behind. Above the clinking of chains was finally coupled with the distant far off screams of pain. But looking up, Sam could see nothing but the endless grey green. No bodies, no one ready for saving.

"You came _back_ to me, Sam," his voice slunk through the air like the slow winding tail of a snake. Like the grin of a fox and the wing of a crow. "You came _back_."

"Lu— _Lucifer_?" Sam asked, his breath still foggy, his eyes casting about the scene in front of him.

"Well..." Lucifer came into view, not in the form of Nick, as he had when Sam was hallucinating, but as Sam himself. In a white suit, with a rose perched in his breast pocket. He was Sam when he was younger, and his face was fuller, hair shorter. But that was Lucifer wearing his face, that was Lucifer moving his arm. "That is, you _could_ come back if you'd left....but you _didn't_ leave, did you, Sammy?"

"... _no_ ," Sam looked around. He was in Hell, and maybe it had triggered it, maybe it had triggered him coming back around, out of the depths of the dream that had been his life. And this, this had been the cruellest torture of them all. Letting him believe that there'd been hope, letting him see that there was some way _out_ , some way to finally meet that end. And then to have it all torn down, all taken away.

Sam couldn't take it, he couldn't, he felt his breathing hitch, and his eyes roll restlessly in his head.

Lucifer looked up at him, a kind, mocking smile on his face. "Oh...you didn't _actually_ think you got out?" He let out a laugh. "Oh, _God_ , Sammy. I can't imagine how you must feel now."

"Don—please. _Please_ no, please... _don't_." Sam begged, voice barely a whisper with the cold, his throat seizing against the iciness of the landscape. " _Please_."

"180 years and I never got you to beg once," Lucifer smiled, spreading his fingers in front of him like he was checking his nails. He looked over to Sam coldly. "Who knew it could be so easy?"

Sam cried out in pain when Lucifer spread his fingers out towards Sam, and he fell to the ground. He felt his leg snap, and the scream that followed tore at his throat. Tore into the depths of his being.

"That's right, Sam," Lucifer smiled silkily, Sam watching his own lips being pressed into a cold, calculating smile. "Welcome home."

Sam closed his eyes, against the pain, against the suffering, and he shuddered in on himself against the cold, hands and arms tucked against his chest, spasming with pain, until his body didn't shake anymore. Until he could feel himself fading away again, until—

"Sam! Hey! Sammy! _Sam_!"

Sam jerked to awareness, staring into Dean's eyes. His brother was holding him down, hands braced against his arms, watching his brother fearfully.

"Dean?" Sam managed weakly, staring passed him to the other worried faces of the group, from Cas who's hands were white with worry around the map, to Alex who was clutching at Jody fearfully, to Garth, eyes wide, damp, stoic and _terrified._ Jody, with her mouth clenched worriedly together, hand holding Alex back, eyebrows furrowed with worry.

"Yeah buddy," Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "You're ok. You're fine."

"I don't—"

"Hey, it's ok," Dean soothed. "Just stay down for a bit, alright?"

Sam nodded, resting his head back against the floor. He cleared his throat. "What...what happened?"

Dean looked across at the others. "You just...fell, man. And then you went super cold and started to shiver, and then you started to _scream..._ " Dean winced at the look on Sam's face as he cut himself off. "Sorry."

"No, I should be the one apologising," Sam insisted, looking away from all of them and up to the screamless chains. "I—"

Dean's head ripped across his neck in a sickening crack, neck severing with the severity of the blow. Sam heard nothing but ringing in his ears, looking up and seeing Alex scream as Jody was wrenched apart, spraying her adoptive daughter in a film of blood. Cas's eyes were wide as his grace exploded from him, the white light explosion covering the sight of Garth screaming as blood gushed out of his mouth and Alex crying out as her chest was ripped open.

Sam closed his eyes, but not before he saw Lucifer there, standing behind the destruction.

His voice floated through the din, right into Sam's ear. "Too easy."

"This isn't...this isn't real, this _isn't real_ , it's _not_ —"

"Hey, Sam, are you ok?"

Sam blinked and looked around, seeing that he'd fallen to the back of the group. Everyone was turned to him curiously, all alive and accounted for.

Garth, exchanging a look with Dean, asked the question again.

Sam blinked, again, and stunned himself into acknowledging. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"You sure?" Dean asked, uncertain.

"Yeah," Sam assured him. He forced a smile and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Because this tasted real, because of the way Dean nodded ( _alive, alive, alive_ ) when Sam said he was fine, and because of the way _all of them were alive._

Maybe it didn't matter what plane of reality was the real one. Because Sam would hold onto this one, with everything he had.

* * *

When the ghost of what Dean had just seen showed itself across his face, Sam called for a break.

Dean had looked at him oddly, like he suspected that Sam knew, but he didn't say anything. Not until they were all sitting on the rocky ground, Alex and Jody crouched low next to each other, giggling at something Garth was saying. Cas hung close by them, casting a side eye when he saw Sam take Dean off, sensing they needed some time alone.

"Hey, are you ok?" Sam asked, searching into Dean's evasive eyes.

"Fine," Dean assured him. "Look, can we just—"

"I saw Lucifer," Sam said quickly. "Just before. He killed you. All of you."

Dean gazed up at his brother. "Shit, Sam. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't want to worry you," Sam replied easily. The raw wound that had been the flashback was nearly healed, and though he treaded bravely around it, it was a slow process. "But Dean, what did _you_ see?"

"Alistair," Dean finally answered, looking away again. "He...he told me to start..." Dean let the rest be filled up by what Sam already knew.

Sam let out a lungful of air. "You think our memories of Hell are coming back?"

"I think being in Hell certainly isn't helping things," Dean said, glancing over at the group, who were slowly standing, pulling themselves together.

"Keep going?" Sam suggested.

Dean nodded, reaching over and holding Sam's arm, warmth seeking warmth, brother seeking brother, soul seeking soul.

He smiled, just barely, but it was there. And in a convoluted way, it was _true_.

"Let's kick this in the ass, yeah?" Dean said, and grinned.

Sam smiled back, and Dean reached over and tapped Sam's cheek, before turning back and leading the way beside Alex and Cas.

* * *

As they got closer and closer, Cas seemed more and more agitated.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, frowning as Cas jerked his head to the side.

Cas grimaced. "It's the demons. They're getting closer."

"Closer?" someone asked from the shadows. The hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood up as he turned to the sound, and Cas spread his hand out, spreading his fingers so that, like a flashlight, it expelled air.

Dean felt the air at the back of his throat melt as he recognised the voice, he recognised _her._

But it was Cas who spoke. " _Meg_?"

The she-demon smile, baring her teeth. In the depths of Hell, she still had the body of the last vessel she'd had, the starlet from Hollywood. "Howdy, Clarence. You look familiar, come here often?"

"Wait, seriously, Meg?" Sam demanded, staring at her. "You were dead! We saw you _die_!"

"You're welcome, by the way," Meg arched an eyebrow at him. She smiled across at Garth, Jody and Alex. "Look at these new faces. Pleased to meet you, new characters."

"Meg?" Dean watched as Jody turned to Sam. "As in the demon Meg? As in demon who _possessed_ you Meg?"

"I'm famous!" Meg gushed.

Sam ignored her, nodding at Jody. "Yeah. We saw her—you— _die_. Crowley killed you!"

Her good humour dropped at the sound of the King of Hell's name. "I prefer 'He Who Will Not be Named'."

"You prefer to call Crowley Voldermort?"

"Not the time, Garth," Dean said warningly. He looked across to Cas, who was watching his once maybe-demon-friend beam up at them like she'd never been gone.

"How are you alive?" Cas asked her, eyes searching her body, her clothes, her brown bushy hair.

Meg smiled. "Death's been pretty messed up this past year. You ever hear of Cerberus?"

"The hound that guards hell in Greek Mythology?" Alex asked, who seemed to be the least phased of the group, gazing at the demon, nearly bored.

"The underworld, but yeah," Meg inclined her head. "Right, so, what d'you think would happen, if Cerberus got distracted? Say some dipshit in the attic decided to cast all the reapers out of heaven. Say then, that Cerberus was forced to pick up the slack. What do you think would be the next adventure for all the little souls he was guarding?" Meg smirked. "Especially if those souls had... _questionable_ morals."

"They'd come back," Dean said evenly. He was torn at seeing her, she'd been good to them in the last few years of her life, overcoming the animosity from having killed their friends and possessing Sam. He didn't have to wish her dead again, but he didn't have to be happy to see her.

Meg spread her arms and looked down at herself. "And here I am. Demons, you know, sorta have souls. I mean, we're ruined, messed up souls damned for all eternity, but souls we have. And there's a special place in the back end of things where we're stored until judgement day. And so I wriggled out, beat the crowd, and here I am."

"You came back to life," Sam stated.

Meg cast him a surly look. "What? Like you and the other two boy toys have monopoly on resurrection." Cas frowned at 'boy toy', but Dean shrugged it off. He tilted his head at Meg, but she ignored him. "Now! Imagine my surprise when I see not only fully fledged souls in Hell, but the fully fledged souls of Sam and Dean Winchester, a werewolf, a child and a middle aged lady sheriff."

Jody raised her eyebrows, but didn't say anything, letting her disapproval show on the set of her lips.

"We're here to rescue souls, Meg," Cas told her evenly.

"Damned souls?" Meg asked, raising her eyebrows disbelievingly. "What? Do you all have a death wish?"

"Not damned souls," Dean said forcefully. "Souls of Hunters that have been gathered for years. They're in here somewhere. We need to get them back."

Meg's eyes flicked to Dean's arm, and he was stunningly aware for a moment, that he had a mark on his arm that shouldn't be there. A mark that she'd recognise.

She smiled though, and let her eyes drift across the company. "So you finally figured it out, huh? Assembled your own Avengers initiative and now you came down here tryna free the souls we were forbidden from ever knowing about."

"But you did," Sam asked her slowly, looking wounded. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Well, first, Demon," Meg pointed to her head, as if it were obvious. "And second, I was sort of forbidden from talking about it." She crossed her arms to her chest. "And it's not like it _came up_ in conversation."

Dean swallowed his irritation and turned to Meg. "Do you know where it is?"

"Yeah. Lucky thing I found you first, huh?" Meg's smile grew cat like. "Not all the others are as cuddly as me."

"Yeah, you're plenty cuddly," Jody commented.

"Thanks," Meg replied without missing a beat. She nodded her head off to the side. "Now, Crowley's an idiot, but he wouldn't put that sort of thing where everyone gathers to...oh I dunno, gamble, have sex, play rock and roll." Meg grinned but nobody shared her enthusiasm. She rolled her eyes and continued on with her story. "Anyway, it's off in the shadows. And I know where it is."

She walked off at that, and Cas followed her first, soon followed by Sam and Alex, and then Garth, who was smiling absently, relieved that they had a guide.

Jody was watching her without expression, and Dean waited for her to start walking before he went off as well.

"You trust her?" Jody asked, watching her leave.

"Honestly?" Dean asked. "No. Not evenly slightly. But we need her."

Jody pursed her lips and still didn't move. "How do we know Crowley didn't just bring her back?"

Dean smirked at that though, because if there was something Meg was guilty of, it wasn't that. "Crowley hates her just as much as she hates him. Don't worry."

"Ok," Jody nodded, starting to walk, so that Dean caught up with her. "I just hope we aren't making a mistake."

 _She's a demon_.

Dean nodded and followed after her. "Don't worry. I hear you."

* * *

"Here we are," Meg gestured towards a doorway, between two massive pillars of rock.

"What, we just walk in?" Dean asked, and Sam looked over to him. He was still watching Meg with an air of disgust, but the anger had ebbed a little when she delivered on her promise.

"What? Seriously, when has it been that easy?" Meg asked, turning on them, shaking her head. "No. Entrance calls for a sacrifice."

"Like...a life?" Alex asked, who'd picked up a casual conversation with Meg as they'd walked.

"Sure," Meg shrugged. She cast her eyes over to Cas. "Or the entirety of an angels grace."

"Why didn't you tell us this _before_?" Sam demanded, heating up, looking to Dean for help.

"Meg, seriously?"

She sighed. "It's not hard to get." She pointed to her head again. "Demon. Inherently evil. Lies a lot."

"Yeah, thanks for perpetuating the stereotype," Dean  said grimly.

Meg shrugged. "Well, someone's going to have to make a sacrifice. And it's not going to be me."

"I'll do it," Cas said immediately.

"Whoa, slow down there," Garth said, looking around the group. "How are we supposed to get out without Cas?"

"Well, you'll have me," Meg shrugged, smiling a very non trustworthy smirk.

"Yeah, thanks," Jody deadpanned. "No, Cas. You can't. Garth is right. We need you."

Dean suddenly jerked his head up, and Sam sensed it, realised it as soon as Dean did. "The...the mark."

"The Mark? You don't happen to mean the Mark of Cain, do you?" Meg asked innocently. Everyone turned to her, and she continued like she hadn't seen them fix their attention onto her. "That'd work."

"How?" Dean asked, looking to the pillars. There was no lock here, like in the entrance, but even here there was no door. Nowhere for him to extend his fingers, nowhere for him to make his offering.

"Put your hand here," Meg offered, and Dean followed suit, placing his palm onto the cold rock. She smiled, like a fox, like a demon. "And offer it up."

Sam moved forward when Dean gasped out in pain, but Meg shook her head, and he restrained himself. From where he was standing, he could see the red poison of the mark stretching down from where it was on Dean's arm through the veins, curving and sweeping towards his hand. He tensed his jaw, feeling every shudder in Dean's body, forcing himself to not reach forward as Dean leaned towards the rock in pain, other hand bracing against the wall to stop him from falling.

The last of it was drawn out, like poison from a snake bite, and Dean swayed and would have fallen if it wasn't for Meg's steadying hand on his arm.

"Easy there Tiger," she comforted, steering him towards Sam, who took Dean's weight. Sam didn't look at her, both to Dean's arm, pulling up his sleeve and laughing out in relief when he saw that the mark was gone.

"Entrance demands a price," Meg shrugged, and they were plunged into darkness. "Sacrifice." Her voice was alone in the dark, but Sam could sense Jody, Garth, Alex and Cas nearby, and feel Dean leaning against him.

Lights flickered, and, like they were entering into a factory, high beam rectangles cast the room into an unearthly glow.

"We're here," Meg said smartly, looking around. She balanced her head like she was considering where she was. "You know, I expected more."

It was a warehouse of sorts, with a set of doors to their left.

"Cas?" Dean looked back, and the angel was looking around, eyes wide with wonder.

"They're here." He took a breath of air, closing his eyes in serenity. "All of them."

* * *

All of them stood at the entrance to Hell, looking up to the sky. Cas had freed the souls with a press of his hand, with a smile, with a glance to the Heavens.

"Jo Harvelle."

Cas instructed them on who was entering Heaven when. Dean closed his eyes as he imagined the daughter of Ellen reaching her promised place. Blonde hair and tough attitude, remembering how she fought rather than how she had died.

"I...Deanna Campbell."

Mary's mother, then, who he was named after. He had barely known her, had barely spoken to her as he'd gone back in time to warn Mary about what was happening. But she must have been good, because Mary had named him, her first born, after her, and Mary had been good.

Meg whispered something to Alex, who huffed a laugh. Dean noticed Jody give the demon the side eye, but she didn't intervene.

Cas's voice called out again.

"John Winchester."

Dean swallowed, and looked across at Sam, who met his look with a small nod. This end was bittersweet, this end was their father, who'd done so much and lived so little, who'd done all he could and done nothing at all, finally reaching his heaven. At least he'd be at rest, no matter what he'd been like. No matter who he'd been forced to become.

"Ellen Harvelle."

Ellen. Sweet, cocky, smirking Ellen. Dean sighed and saw as his breath materialised cold in the air in front of him.

"Rufus Turner."

Dean saw Sam mirror his wry grin as Rufus's name was called. He remembered tipping the Johnny Walker on his grave, he remembered the stories Bobby would tell when he got a little too drunk late at night. He remembered the way Rufus would grin, he remembered the first time they'd met.

The sorta guy you could rely on to help in burying a body.

Dean imagined that as the stars spilled across the skies, that every star that blinked into existence was one of their friends, one of their family, finally coming home.

More names. Caleb, Joshua, Isaac, Pastor Jim. And Dean remembered them all.

"Jessica Moore."

Sam smiled, to himself, eyes cast downward. Dean would have liked to reach out and comfort him, but he knew Sam needed a moment where it was just him and his memories. Where he was 22 again, and the world was just _better._

And finally, with an odd reverence, Cas spelt out the last name.

"Mary Winchester."

Sam looked at Dean, hard, and Dean saw that there were tears in his eyes. Whether they'd formed for their mother, or started before it didn't matter. Because there they were, and they'd won. Dean had lost the mark, and they had won. Their mother had finally reached peace, and they were done.

"Hey, Mom," Dean looked up to the sky as he whispered, and no one spoke or moved for a few moments after that, their gazes lost to the sky.


	10. The Resurrection of Meg Masters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, Sam, Meg and Cas go out to sort out a series of demonic possessions in Brooklyn, trying to chase down the king of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100,000th word bitches! Yay!

In all honesty, he should have noticed the signs sooner.

He was into that voodoo crap, that demonic paraphernalia and those magician mind tricks. Or so his father had called them. Black magic and witchy shit, that he'd hunch over night after night, memorising rituals and spells, sprinkling pretty sprigs of lavender and herbs into his mom's mixing bowl, and then setting it all alight.

Of course, he melted the plastic, and burnt his desk, and the air was charred with the smoke of the coriander (he hadn't been able to find any lavender, that time). He wasn't a very _good_ witch, but one all the same. And he should have seen the signs.

But then again, he'd never _really_ believed. It'd all been a way out, hadn't it? Some kids go for video games or writing crappy poetry, others go for drugs and drinking and sex, but he went for the other option. The admittedly creepier and more friendless of the spread, but a safe one. More or less.

Because demons didn't exist.

That is, until they did.

The door swung shut with a bang, and it was after it had closed and he had turned that Steven jumped.

Tabitha, all seven years old and pouting, was staring at him, mouth slightly open, eyes slightly vacant as he crossed the threshold.

" _Jesus_ ," He cursed, clutching at his throbbing heart. "Don't _do_ that!"

Tabitha just blinked at him, tilting her head and fixing a stare.

Steve paused for a moment, just for a moment, looking worriedly at his sister. "Uh, everything alright, Tat?"

She didn't even acknowledge that he had spoken, just stared at him with those unblinking eyes, that unwavering stare.

Like she was infecting him, like her gaze was something that he had to shake off, he ran quickly up the stairs, leaving his little sister and her dark gaze to linger in darkness.

He wondered whether she would stand there, just looking to where he had run for the rest of the night. He wondered if she would blink, whether she would tilt her head, whether she would shrug and walk away.

But he was certain that if he were to open his door and edge down the hall, peer over the stairs and look down to her, he'd see that she was unmoved. Untouched. Eyes still fixedly unblinking. Mouth still decidedly separated _just_ so. And so he didn't. Because he didn't want to be right, and was terrified about what would happen if he weren't wrong.

He closed his eyes and he saw her draw closer to him, just walking up the stairs, unstoppable in her tiny body, each placement of her feet cruelly drawn out, each movement of her hands swinging by her waist achingly innocent. And he would slam his door closed, and there she would stand, all night, just _staring_ at the white paint.

He shook himself and walked to his computer. Slowly, he opened the lid to his laptop and waiting for it to load, tapped his fingers on the burn mark from the disastrous spell attempt that had nearly burnt his house down. Or so his dad said, storming into his room and refusing to allow Steve to practise any further.

Steve had grudgingly agreed, but still did the odd spell here and there, just to ensure he didn't lose practise until the day the Coven of New York would take him in. As he understood it, covens were primarily all women, but he could see himself rising through the ranks. Becoming the Male-Queen of the New York City Coven.

Or, something like that.

But the world rarely catered for him in that regard, as the followers on his widely unpopular and rarely viewed blog knew all too well.

The screen flickered into completion and he clicked onto the internet browser, quickly navigating to his blog page. With a breadth of hesitation, he furrowed his brow before writing down all he'd seen. Summarising  it in a single sentence: "I think my sister might be possessed. More to come."

* * *

"How are they?" Sam asked, as Dean came back into the motel room, slamming his keys on the table.

"Vampire Diaries and Brooklyn 99 are nearly in Sioux Falls, and I haven't managed to get onto Teen Wolf, but I assume he's nearly in Alaska by now."

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes at 'Teen Wolf' but didn't comment on it. "Well, that's good. No lingering side affects?"

"Ah, nothing a little exorcising won't fix," Dean said, passing back a grin as he went off to the mini kitchen, pulling out a beer from the fridge and offering it to Sam.

"I'm good," Sam said absently, pulling his laptop towards him and tapping onto the keys, pulling up whatever page he'd been scouring before Dean had come in.

Sam glanced to the window for a second. The blinds were drawn, as they always were, with only a hint of the outside world available for viewing. And from what he could see, with the oranges and the yellows of the first real sunset they'd seen in weeks, the day was drawing towards its close.

"Yeah, it's getting on," Dean commented, taking a swig of his beer. He nodded to Sam's laptop. "Anything good?"

"Maybe something," Sam said, frowning at the news article. "There's been a series of tweets in the Brooklyn area about the, uh, way some of their neighbours have been acting."

"So, what, we're thinking Changelings, Shifters, Demons...what?"

"Shifters are rare enough, let alone getting along in groups," Sam shook his head, frowning. "No, I think demon possession. Besides, changelings usually go for kids, don't they?"

Dean had started packing, hearing case and moving into autopilot, picking his duffel bag up and propping the sides up on top of his bed. "Usually, yeah. But is there anything else?"

"Not really," Sam shook his head, glancing through all he'd gathered about Brooklyn. "Nothing else but demons really fits the criteria."

"Fair enough." Dean folded a shirt before placing it deftly inside the bag. "You got somewhere we can start?" He glanced over, folding his plaid over shirt into his bag efficiently, not looking down as he placed it within.

"I got an idea," Sam said, spinning the laptop and showing Dean a blog decorated entirely in black and green, with large spooky letters welcoming the cyber space voyager to 'Spiritus Secundus'. "It means, 'Favourable Spirit' in Latin. And here," Sam clicked onto the screen and Dean forwent folding his clothes for getting a closer look, placing down the pair of socks he was rolling to walk over. "Is his last post."

"I think my sister might be possessed, more to come," Dean read aloud, looking down to Sam after he'd finished. "So, let me guess, no more came?"

"Nope, and get this," Sam looked grim. "He posted it three days ago."

"He?" Dean asked, looking back to the blog.

"Dude, give me a little credit," Sam scoffed, offended. "I traced the IP address to a house in Brooklyn, and then cross referenced the address with the national database to access the results of the most recent census, and then tracked any retail activity in the area for the past few years."

Dean blinked. "Did you understand anything you just said? Because I didn't."

Sam spared a moment to give Dean a look before turning back to the Blog. He hit a few keys and brought up a picture of an African American boy, beaming at the camera in what looked like a school photo. "Meet Steven Bright. 16 years old and reported missing two days ago."

Dean slowly went back to packing his bag. "You know, I feel like that was something you could have opened with."

"It's a long drive to New York," Sam said, in a way of sort of answer, but more sidelining around the subject altogether.

"Indeed it is Sammy," Dean said, throwing him a grin. "Good thing you've got me and Hetfield to keep you company."

"Great," Sam muttered, slamming the lid of his laptop and jumping up to get started on his packing. It wouldn't look it from an outsiders perspective, but Sam was a lot messier than Dean. If there were socks on the bathroom floor, either they'd never been either of the Winchesters to begin with or they were Sam's. And Sam always managed to lose track of how many shirts he owned, forcing them to scour the motel to make sure that management didn't have to call them up and learn that the Hardy brothers were as fictitious as their namesake.

"You got everything?" Dean glanced over his shoulder, relying on his practised hands to zip up his bag.

"Uh, no, not yet," Sam picked up a pair of paints and a nearly clean t-shirt and threw them onto his bed.

Dean hesitated, looking torn. "Uh...need some help?"

"...Nope."

* * *

The door opened, and black eyes beamed up at them.

"Clarence says we're goin' to New York," Meg told them, arm outstretched as she leant against the doorway.

Dean frowned at her before looking at Cas, who was standing awkwardly a few paces off. "Seriously, dude? I thought you said that you and her were going to split!"

"We did," Meg forced her way into the room, giving it a once over, greeting Sam with a little wave before turning back to a disgruntled Dean. "I decided life was boring, we are all meaningless and that you're a lot more fun to hang out with than me on my lonesome."

"Well, you're not coming with us to Brooklyn," Dean stated firmly. He looked to Sam for backup, who looked comfortable with him taking the wheel. Even Cas distanced himself, leaving Dean to face down Meg, who'd risen one perfectly disgruntled eyebrow.

"You honestly want to hop off to a Demonic possession _without_ your neighbourhood friendly demon?" Meg demanded, hands settling defiantly on her hips. "C'mon. I mean, I _did_ die for you. You should be worshipping me. Or something."

Sam made a small noise of agreement at the back of the room. "She has a point, Dean."

"Yes, thank you, Sam," Meg turned to him, before snapping back to Dean, eyes wide as if he should be taking what Sam was saying to heart. "I hate to flog a dead horse, but I _did_ give up my  life—"

"For us," Dean finished. "We know."

"Look," Meg sighed. "I don't ask for much. Just a ride to a known hang out for Crowley's inbred bastards, Crowley's exact location and a clean shot."

"So, this is really about finding _Crowley_ ," Cas said, and to Dean, he sounded almost disappointed.

"I really don't know how many times I'm going to have to bring it up, but I did _die,_ you know. Crowley did kill me." Meg gave them all a look. "I was totally, quite completely, actually dead."

Dean almost told her that the king was nearing humanity, that the blood Sam had given him had lain undefeatable traces of empathy throughout his veins. That he might never truly be a demon again. But he didn't, because she's use it to her advantage, and Dean wasn't sure if that was something he wanted yet. He wasn't sure whether their priorities lined up, and he didn't want to ever have to find out.

"Ok, we'll make a deal," Sam suggested, coming forward. Meg turned, interested, and Dean made a vicious cutting gesture to snap Sam out of whatever idea he'd concocted. Sam ignored him, turning to his once bunk-buddy, perhaps-demon-girlfriend, co-runaway with a slight dimpled smile. "You tell us everything you know about you coming back to life, and we'll let you come."

"You know I _could_ just transport myself there." Meg smirked. " _My_ broken wings still work."

Cas shuffled uncomfortably, and looked at her enviously. He didn't say anything, just looked across at Dean, who was staring furiously at his brother.

"We'd just tie you up in a devils trap," Sam shrugged.

Meg scoffed. "Yeah, right." At Sam's unwavering stare she broke eye contact and rolled her eyes. "Alright. Well, Cas had heard the story, so if you all want to take a seat, we can get started on tonight's production of Deathtrap."

Sam complied, dumping the clothes he'd been clutching next to him on the bed as he seated himself, balancing his elbows on his knees and crossing he wrists over each other in front of his legs. Meg tilted her head towards Dean, but he just slouched more comfortably, nodding for her to get on with it.

"Ok, so, in 'Demon Heaven', it's sort of a free for all, let's-kill-em bloodbath than the Memory Lane strolls of human heaven," Meg explained, pacing easily in front of them, her leather jacket creasing on the inside of her elbows as she bent her arms to use her hands to talk.

"It sounds like purgatory," Cas frowned.

Meg inclined her head towards him. "Quite right, Otto. Not that I've ever been to purgatory, but, you know," she waved her hands in a dismissive gesture. "I have friends. And stuff."

"Friends? No way."

"Clam it, Deano," Meg shut him up. "There was a rumour, that sort of reached my ears after a few months of slaving away in the darkness. That some dick plucked the wings off the canaries and dumped them into the coal mine. That this included the Reapers, and that the world was changing." Meg smirked. "And you can imagine my surprise. And then, of course, all the plans that were to follow. I'm smarter and older than most of the demons trapped down in there, and I know a thing or two about Death and what that meant." She adopted her trademark demonic smile and glanced across at them all. "And I bid my time."

"And what? The doors to death just opened up?" Dean frowned. "Seems pretty unlikely."

"Oh no, they didn't," Meg assured him. She finally stopped pacing and leant against the wall, settling in and holding her arms across her chest. "There was a hell of a lot of fighting, and a hell of a lot of killing, and I wasn't the only one who forced my way out."

"Do you know who else?" Sam asked, and the obviousness of his forced nonchalance gave away his nervousness. Of all the people in the world, it was them who had the most to lose when demons and other monsters came back to life.

Meg shrugged. "No one big. Lilith, Azazel, Alistair, all your top buds are still tripping over their own vomit."

"Well, that's something," Dean muttered, quirking his head and then settling back with crossed arms. "But hardly all the powerful people we put away."

"Chill, 5.0," Meg assuaged him, raising her hands in a defensive position. "In that short time I was free to move about, I didn't stand still. I asked around, got the down low, figured out what was what."

"So you know that Crowley's still in charge," Cas said, frowning.

"Yeah," Meg said, not bothering to hide her seething resentment. "I heard. Also, that the 'Usurper' was out for the count. Slayed by our one and only Dean Winchester. That Sammy Winchester was possessed by the knight. That Dean killed him to save the world." She barred her teeth, in her sharkish attempt at a smile. "Love, hope, desperation and co-dependency all rolled into one tasty enchilada."

"Shut up, Meg," Dean advised, glaring at her, using all the strength he had not to turn to Sam and see how his brother was responding. Because if he did, and their eyes met, and their voices rose beyond the ability of tongues, then Dean didn't know what would happen next. Didn't _want_ to know the after affects of feeling so _raw_ and filled with life.

Abaddon for his brother, Abaddon for Sam's life.

He knew, he _knew_ , that if someone asked him to do it again, if it was all brought back to where everything was the same, but the _tiniest_ thing was different, he would have hesitated. He would have chosen differently.

The world would have fallen to the other side of the knife.

"Tell them what you told me, Meg," Cas told her quickly, catching scent of the animosity the subject matter was tending towards.

"Oh yeah," Meg said, either not caring for her misstep or not noticing it. "Fun story. No one's seen Crowley in weeks. Not since he freed this Crossroads demon from a pack of hunters. Or at least," her voice dropped confidingly, "No one's talkin'."

"So you want to come with us, to interrogate some demons, to find Crowley," Sam summarised, and Dean finally felt brave enough to meet Sam's glance in his direction. "You gotta be kidding me."

"What? Seriously?" Meg demanded. "I've told you everything! We had a _deal_!" She glared venomously, her eyes sinking dangerously close to black. "And people say that _we're_ the deceiving ones."

"She has a point, Sam, Dean," Cas said, with his earnest eyes and heartfelt expression. Meg looked over at him, caught off guard and oddly thankful, her face morphing into the uncomfortable expression with an uncharacteristic amount of grace. "We owe it to her. She did—"

" _Die_ for you thankless bastards," Meg finished decisively, still fuming, arms crossed vigilantly, eyes narrowed with fury and irritation. "'Thankless' being the key word there."

Dean and Sam turned to each other to work up their decision. Sam nodded, almost invisibly, and turned to the demon to deliver the verdict.

"Fine," Sam sighed, meeting Meg's eyes with the same wary caution he held around all demons and angels. Dean tried to think of where that paranoia had been unfounded, but could think of none at that moment. Even Cas, who'd been watching the entire exchange almost silently, had fallen off the wagon more than once. He thought perhaps the new angels, the ones Cas had been leading and the ones they had met. Perhaps Hannah or Sariel or Romeo were trustworthy, perhaps they were exceptions to the long standing rule, but history was always being repeated.

And there was always that niggling doubt at the back of Dean's mind that one day, he'd turn, and there Hannah would stand, blade in hand. She'd look up to him, and she'd smile, and he would die.

And that would be that.

It was offensive, to Hannah, who had never been anything but kind to the Winchesters, and to himself, who could probably take an angel after all the practice he'd had fighting them, even if snuck up on, and even if he had finally dropped the mark of Cain.

"You won't regret it," Meg promised, and though Dean searched, there was no malice to her tone. No twist in her words. There was something ironic about how truthful she was, despite herself. Something ironic that of all of them, of Sam, who still had the last drops of Azazel's blood spinning through his veins alongside Sarah's, and Cas, who for a year after he'd saved Sam from the cage had deceived both of the brothers, to himself, who hadn't been truthful about anything important since the start of everything.

"So," Sam said finally. "Brooklyn."

* * *

"Please don't tell me that you're actually a 45 year old could-a-been rapper," Meg deadpanned as she took in Cas's car.

He frowned, looking down at the cream of the car he'd stolen, and awkwardly hesitated, glancing over at Meg, who was looking at it, displeased. "It's...just a car, Meg."

"It's just a _pimps_ car," she corrected.

Cas hesitated, side eyeing Meg carefully. He had no idea how to work through what her coming back meant. She was something to him that he'd never be able to fully eradicate, she left a stain on his soul that would never fully fade. He knew their friendship, or whatever it was that their relationship was, was something special and important and real. A demon and an angel. Heaven and Hell. Light and dark. An entangling of shades of grey.

Sam and Dean were already in the Impala, payed off their motel room and waiting for Cas and Meg to lead them out to Brooklyn and the demonic infestation. Cas looked out to them and saw that the brothers were talking, and with the amused look Dean threw him, the angel assumed it was about him.

Meg sighed and moved to the shot gun seat, picking open the door and swooping in. "Alrighty, then, Damiel. We good to go?"

Cas obligingly walked over, feet hitting the ground in a basic, consistent rhythm.

_He didn't know what to think. What to think. She was here._

Cas slid in, and frowned at but didn't mention Meg's boots propped up under the windscreen. She grinned over at him, flicking through a magazine she probably didn't pay for, in a pair of sunglasses she definitely didn't have, sitting in a car she could have foregone for instantaneous transportation.

Perhaps, and it was a _strong_ perhaps, she felt as close and significant to him as he felt to her. Perhaps all that talk, about sex and kissing and love was less of a pretence and more of a defence mechanism. Because what more assured something wouldn't be taken seriously if it were joked about? How else would Meg ensure that what she did wouldn't ever, _ever_ , be seen as it was?

She was a demon. She had a name and a stage and a part to play. Cas was an angel, he had a name. And a script, just like her.

As Cas started the car, Meg dropped her feet and leant forward, picking through the music and selecting a station Cas thought Dean would be particularly partial to. She kicked back, didn't put on a seatbelt and Cas pulled out after the Winchester brothers.

_She was here._

The sun streamed through the window and hit off her shades. She snorted at something she read in her (probably stolen) magazine and she was alive.

She was alive.

And Cas

— _Alive and alive and Meg, she's a demon, whattothinkidon'tknowidon't—_

didn't know what to think.

* * *

Dean wanted to broach the topic. Like everything else important in their lives, it had been unceremoniously swept under the rug, caught up with all the other bullshit they'd been forced to live through. Sam had used to be the one to dig that sort of thing up, to pick up the pieces and force things to be fixed, but after everything that being emotional had cost his brother, Dean wasn't surprised when he opted for a different path.

Even if that path was a thousand times longer and a million times more harrowing.

"Hey, uh, Sammy?" Dean asked, looking over, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, just off the beat of the music. He spared the barest of moments to look over at Sam before turning back to the road.

"Uh, yeah?" Sam asked, looking over and tilting the screen of his laptop down so that Dean would know that he was giving his full attention. In his peripheral vision Dean could see Sam adjust himself so that they were facing, but couldn't bring himself to look away from the road again. "What's up?"

"We..." Dean attempted, trailing off as he lost his nerve. With a surge of effort he cleared his throat and tried again. "We went to _Hell_ , Sammy."

Sam's laptop snapped shut and Dean heard his brother readjust himself, so that his weight was held by the old leather seats of their car, and the sun caught him at a damaging angle, where the shadows along his face lengthened and darkened his face. Long stripes painting around his jaw and into his eye sockets. "Yeah."

"Right," Dean agreed uncomfortably. He let the silence sift around them, the drumming of his fingers on the steering wheel slowing but still out of time. He finally took the initiative to look over at his brother and he saw Sam watching him, despondent, eyes half lowered, hands held loosely over his chest. He looked young, young and vulnerable. Dean's heart sprang in his chest and echoed harshly throughout his body, his bones shaking with the tremors. He looked fully out to the road, eyes curving along the design of the road, hands moving intuitively with the shifts he had to follow.  "And I...I, uh, saw Alistair," his hands tightened around the wheel. "And...I _know_ it wasn't real, and I _know_ he wasn't actually there, but..." he took a pause, took a breath, counted to three. Composed himself and took charge. "But it _felt_ real."

And it wasn't eloquent or moving or spiritual or quote-worthy. And when Sam looked back on this, if he ever did, he wouldn't remember their conversation for tricky wordplay or the insubordinate fire of the english language and how it could dominate, if pressed and melded, almost all emotion. But it was out there, and when he spared another second to look at his brother, the shadows had melted, and the lines had been redrawn, but softer, kinder.

Sam was thankful.

"Lucifer," Sam said, pronouncing each syllable carefully. Like he was a little boy, practising over and over again to rid himself of a speech impediment. "I...I didn't..." Sam didn't finish, but Dean could fill in the blanks.

_Torture and betrayal and ice and snow, a cold laugh floating off as if stolen by a shrill wind, a scream in the night that you know you could have saved and blood and blood and blood—_

Dean blinked and scared himself, just for a moment, wondering whether what he'd just been thinking about had been about Sam, or himself.

"It's..." Dean searched at the back of his mind for something to convey how...how _there_ for Sam he was, how _present_. How losing the Mark felt like another attempt at life, _another_ new leaf and another fresh chance. How all that fighting between them had led to nothing. Nothing but death. And if it was misery and death or love and death, Dean knew which path he'd prefer to follow.

He'd die, but at least he'd go with no regrets that he hadn't _lived._

"It's hard to remember," he finally said, talking slowly, words building up momentum. He heard shifting in Sam's seat, but didn't have the courage in his quivering heart to turn and see what his little brother was doing. "All of what we've been through. It's hard..."

Sam swallowed and Dean heard his hair scratch lightly upon the leather as he nodded. "Yeah, Dean. I know. It is."

Dean let out a long sigh of air, finishing it up with a wry smile. "Well, we're nearly there, right? Nearly beyond the point of crappiness and into whatever the Hell is on the other side of that Rainbow?"

"Hey, it's always darkest before the dawn," Sam shrugged.

And their dawn was coming, coming after a night long drawn out and suffered through. A starless night with an absent moon and a soiled earth. With lonely strangers and misdirected car alarms.

Their dawn would be _spectacular_.

* * *

New York city was at a grid lock, and from what Dean could tell, wasn't going to be moving along anytime soon. After nearly two days and a half straight of driving, Dean was over it, and this seriously wasn't helping matters. Sam was slumped next to him, chest rising and falling evenly as he slept off the night shift. Dean turned, sighing, back to the long backlog of cars in front of him. He should have known better than to hit the city at rush hour, but they'd already stopped for the first night and they hadn't wanted anymore delays.

Speaking of they, Dean glanced fruitlessly throughout the cars surrounding him, wondering if he could pick out Meg and Cas's car yet. He knew it was pointless to call now, and that all it would serve was a three line call and a follow up when they got there anyway. And Dean knew it was really his worry over them, well, mainly Cas, that caused his niggling to reach for his phone, but he also knew that they were more than capable of taking care of themselves.

An angel and a demon, and what did he have to worry about?

Sam shifted in his sleep and muttered something, legs jerking out like he was running in his dream just as Dean inched a few yards further along. Dean looked over absently, but Sam was smiling, and so, hesitantly, Dean joined him, keeping the smile on his face as he turned back to the road.

Keeping it etched on there like soon, if he tried hard enough, he might just believe it.

There was a decisive toss from Sam's side of the car and he moaned awake, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as Dean turned to check on him.

His skin was papery and grey, and his eyes looked pinched and small, but he looked well rested, and content, as he glanced around the car.

He stretched and yawned, and Dean fought down that all natural instinct to yawn back. "Where are we?"

"Just outside NYC," Dean said grimly, looking down the highway to where the gridlock was still unyielding.

"Damn," Sam swore, looking around and blinking as the sunlight hit his retinas. "What happened?"

"Don't know," Dean replied, and Sam looked ready to jump out the car and see what everybody else knew. "Hey, whoa, chill man. Traffics probably just bad."

"This bad?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow, already out of his sleepy, disorientated self and into his righteous, determined one. "Dean, I don't think traffic _gets_ this bad. Have you tried the radio?"

Dean gestured to the machine, which, at that moment, had been playing some Pink Floyd around in the background. "No, I've been reconnecting to a lost youth."

"You're so weird."

"Oh shut up. You love me," Dean grinned, and Sam gave a derisive, pointed look in reply.

Dean sighed and tapped onto the radio. "Ok, fine, I _assumed_ it was just the traffic. Let's see if there's anything on."

It took a few times to get them to a News channel, and when they did, it took the whole bulletin before they got to traffic.

" _And there's been an emergency announcement to avoid Route I-281 as there has been a shock pile up of cars. So far, no fatalities have been reported—"_

"Shit," Sam murmured, looking across all the cars to where the crash site would have been, eyes blinking against the sinking sun.

"— _But Police and Firemen have refused comment until after the crash site was cleared and all facts have been accounted for. Lanes have finally started opening up and traffic is being allowed through, but it'll be a slow crawl until the entire road is allowed to clear. Back to you—"_

Dean snapped the radio off, returning it to the lilting tunes of Syd Barrett and the boys, but not really hearing the music. He gritted his teeth angrily, forcing himself not to snap out as he moved the impala another few metres.

"Dean, chill," Sam warned, looking more haggard as the sun sped up its journey into night, pushing back the strands of his hair and sighing. "No point getting frustrated."

"Now, that was exactly what I needed, thanks, Sam," Dean snapped, not looking over as he dealt with his irritation. Of _course_ Sam would say that, he'd just woken up. Hadn't had to sit through the hours of driving, and the hours of sitting, and the hours of nothing but his own thoughts and the ringing tunes of The Sweet to keep him company (which he'd changed to Alice in Chains when he'd stopped for Gas on the interstate). He hadn't—

Dean's thoughts were stopped abruptly as he felt his phone vibrate against his leg. He paused as he heard it ring, digging it out and seeing Cas's contact flash up onto the screen. Dean answered it, calling out a small "Cas" to Sam's questioning look.

"Hey," he said, pressing the answer button and holding it next to his ear. "What's up?"

" _You shouldn't drive and talk on your mobile, Dean,_ " Meg chastised from the other end of the line, and Dean could imagine her satisfied, cat-got-the-cream grin. " _It's dangerous, you know._ "

"Oh, Meg," Dean stated blandly, looking to Sam to make sure his brother caught the memo. Sam did, rolling his eyes and settling back into his seat, but not looking as put out as Dean felt. "Where's Cas?"

" _Don't you ever listen to anything I say_?" the demon demanded, the sigh of leather settling underweight hissing through the phone as she adjusted in her seat. " _It's dangerous to drive and talk on the phone at the same time. Cas is driving._ " She paused and Dean could hear a low voice in the background. " _He wants you to know he says hi, by the way._ " There was another low rumbling, a lot more put out, that suggested that that was _not_ what Cas had been trying to say, but Meg ignored it. " _Anyway, news is, there's a crash site up ahead_."

"Yeah, we heard," Dean affirmed, turning to Sam and mouthing 'Car Crash', met by Sam's deadpanned glare that read 'Yeah, could've guessed that one' as easily as if he'd said it out loud. Dean turned to the phone, grinning to himself a little. That he could still irritate his little brother. That things that were precious still were, and things that they'd thought lost could be found. "Why?"

" _Well_ ," Meg said, dropping her voice back to casual, nearly lazy. " _Want me to go see what all the fuss is about?_ "

"Why?" Dean demanded, wondering what sort of prizes could be stolen from the broken body of a pile up of cars.

" _Well, use that tiny, monkey brain of yours for a second_ ," Meg said, and Dean rolled his eyes. " _We go to a city riddled with demonic infestation, and suddenly it sees one of the worst car crashes in reasonable memory. Don't think there's something a little off here, Private?_ "

"You think a demon did this?" Dean asked, running over what he knew and hoping that it wasn't. Because, Hell, if the demons were lashing out at such a noticeable scale, they were going to have their work cut out for them.

" _Well, that's why I wanna head down_ ," Meg explained slowly, like she was talking to a child. " _You know, poke around. Get the down low. All that suave, detective crap._ "

"You can still teleport, can't you?" Dean mused, talking more to himself than the demon at the other end of the line.

" _Sure can_ ," Meg replied, smarmy. " _What persona do you think I should go for to get the most out of the trip? Terrified bystander or desperate relation?_ "

"How about 'Obnoxious Bitch'?" Dean suggested, and Meg barked out a laugh through the phone. Dean ignored his brothers put-off air and tried not to feel at least a _little_ pleased that she had enjoyed his joke.

" _That's a good one. I'll tell my secretary. Careful, Deano. Don't want me to start liking you now, do you?_ " Meg said easily, unfazed, and Dean hadn't expected her to be.

"Ok—"

" _Hang on, James, wanna run this by your Bond Girl before I go special ops for you_?" Meg asked him, halting his agreement. She assumed he hadn't understood when he paused, so she sighed, rough and coarse down the phone, and Dean could _feel_ the eye roll. " _Sam, you idiot._ "

"Yes, I _know_ , Sam," Dean informed her indignantly, pulling the phone away and turning to his brother, who'd been listening to Dean's half of the conversation half heartedly after a few minutes into the conversation. Sam had perked up at his name though, and was looking over patiently and curiously, head tilted slightly to the side.

"What's up?" Sam asked, saving Dean from introducing the explanation. His hazel eyes were pinched slightly suspiciously, and Dean fought down the curdle of irritation that, after everything, after how hard he'd tried to _change_ , there was _still—_ but no. He couldn't expect miracles in a measurement of hours. He and Sam might never reclaim what once had been theirs, that easy, effortless communication, that perfect, synchronised harmony.

And Dean, as much as he hated it, _Oh God_ , he'd have to accept it. Because he'd take it, his little brother, his whacked out relationship, no matter what. No matter _what_.

"Meg," Dean said lightly, and if Sam noticed the change in pitch and the drop in the mood, it didn't show. "She wants to go and check out the crash site. See if the demons decided to play Terminator."

"Whoa, like that plane demon that we took out after I left Stanford?" Sam frowned, eyes wide with wondering. His lips twitched into something not quite a smile, but not quite a frown, but rather a melancholy line that decorated his lips with nostalgia and regret. Jess and Sarah and their Dad and the colt, Missouri and Azazel and seeing Mom's ghost.

Dean wondered if it hit Sam as hard as it had hit him when he'd gone back to see Missouri before Sam had been brought back to life. He wondered if Sam missed it when it was just them, just the road, just Jess's ghost behind them and the rest of the world ahead.

Dean ducked his head as he managed a small, sad smile. When had everything become so complicated?

Dean pulled the phone back to his ear, taking Sam's non-answer to be an agreement. "He's all for it, Meg," he spoke to the receiver, to where the demon had been patiently waiting, with no amount of derisive huffing when he finally turned back to talk to her. "Call us when you get back."

" _Gotcha_ ," Meg assured him, and Dean felt more than heard the phone drop to the seat. There was a crinkling and Cas's voice spoke through.

" _She just left_ ," Cas told him. Then, after a brief paused, assured Dean, " _Don't worry. Traffic isn't moving._ "

"It's all good, Cas," Dean said, perhaps a little too formally, but Cas didn't seem to mind. Perhaps it was Meg as well, that was triggering all these memories. Because although she'd been there during the apocalypse and the leviathan situation and made her sacrifice against Crowley, it was really all the way to the start when she'd made her mark. When they'd first met her. When they'd tracked her down to that abandoned warehouse and saw her controlling those daeva's.

" _Goodbye, Dean_."

And the phone clicked off.

* * *

When Meg appeared, she made extra sure that she wasn't seen by anyone. It wasn't that hard, with all the attention being on the smoking wreckages of what looked like five cars and a semi-trailer all tangled and squished together. Now, Meg was no expert, but she was pretty certain that with that amount of structural damage, there had to be at least a few fatalities.

She walked carefully forward, keeping her hand near her angel blade, letting her eyes wander from car to car, seeing the police take statements and the fire fighters finished up controlling the blaze.

Meg turned her head suddenly when she felt a prickling on the back of her neck, and grimaced when she saw what her instincts had been calling her towards.

"Urgh," she winced, taking in the sight of the piled black body bags. Honestly, though, she was more irritated that whatever the police had done might have ruined her chances of finding proof of demonic possession than of actually seeing her guess right in that of dead bodies.

She gazed around again, keeping her gaze open and scared. She was a demon, she could act, and act well enough that when a policeman spotted her, he approached her to talk rather than spray her away with the water hose.

"Uh, excuse me, miss," he announced himself gruffly, lips twitching beneath a raggedy, yet quite impressive moustache. "You're not authorised to be here."

"Oh, sorry," she apologised, turning to the policeman, deciding disorientated was the most likely act to pull through. "I just didn't know what the problem was, why we weren't moving..." she let her lost eyes catch his, and saw that he was watching her with worry. Meg his a grin. _Gotcha_. She took a harsh breath, letting her sight fall on the body bags. "Are those..are there _people_ in there?"

The policeman looked at her with a touch more sympathy now, but Meg couldn't stay long to chat. Demons could manipulate and lie, but sooner or later he'd notice something was up. He'd ask her some question she couldn't answer and the play would be over, curtains down and no encore. She'd have to kill him, and any resemblance of a friendship between herself and the second Triumvirate of Rome could be entirely forgotten. "Look, Miss. I'm sorry, but I gotta ask you to move on. You don't want to see this."

"But..." Meg dug desperately and sighed internally. Sorry, Dean. Looks like she'd have to go behind door 2 after all. "But...is that..." She reached out awkwardly for one of the number plates and read it slowly, trying her best to make the numbers seem familiar. " _4FG 12D..._ Oh my God, Oh my _God_ ," she took a shuddering breath and pulled back, shaking her knees and falling slightly, jerking out her hand and nearly grimacing when the policeman almost missed catching her. " _No_. No, this isn't... _Sam_?"

"Did you know the deceased person in that car, Ma'am?" The police asked, obviously uncomfortable with her display of emotion. Meg had flung out for Sam, deciding that it wasn't as weird as 'Cas', not as Gender obvious as Dean and a decent, realistic name for dude or girl. Chances were they hadn't run the plates yet, but it would only be a matter of time before they managed to find evidence that said who was who. Meg's deadline had just been cut again.

She stumbled forward, keeping her knees loose as she fell over the border and into the sealed off section. She supposed she should start screaming, but she choose heaving, gasping breaths instead. More believable, and kept any officers who might have an idea of who she was supposed to be calling out to in the dark for a few minutes longer.

The excessive oxygen from her forced hyperventilation was making her head spin, but she fought it down easily and fell to her knees beside the number plate, cradling the scrap metal in her hands, staring down at it unblinkingly.

One, two, three tears splashed down on it, casting the yellow dust off in perfect circles.

"Hey! Hey, Ma'am! You can't be here!"

Meg ran the substance between her fingers and gave a small smile. When the policeman came over, she dropped the smile and wailed, long and loud, and collapsed into his arms.

* * *

" _Sulfur_ ," Meg assured him, and it had been how she'd Sam as well.

"Wait, what?" Sam asked, frowning, placing two and two together, but not before Meg could but in.

" _Definite demonic possession. I checked out the crash site, and I swear, man, Sulfur, all over the damned crash_ ," Meg answered for him, dropping the usual snark. She sounded serious, and if Sam hadn't known better, worried. " _And these bitches aren't messing around_."

"We think that they're destructive demons," Sam told her, looking over to Dean who had kept up a small crawl after traffic had picked up at the 40 minute mark. "You know, like the ones that used to control freak Weather Accidents, but have evolved onto the more...modern of todays disasters."

" _Like plane crashes_ ," Meg suggested, and Sam ignored the ringing insinuation in her voice. She wanted him to ask her how she knew, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. It was petty, but Sam didn't care.

 _Besides_ , he thought bitterly. _She's probably read those damned books. Like every other creature in the universe._

"Yeah," Sam agreed nonchalantly. "Like plane crashes."

" _Okay, I'll chat with Clarence here and see what we come up with,_ " Meg farewelled, and Sam took the initiative to end the call, pressing his thumb down on the red button.

"All good?" Dean glanced over, reaching down and turning up A-Ha now that Sam had finished on the phone.

"Well, remember how I was thinking about the demon on that plane..."

* * *

The finest Brooklyn had to offer was pretty far off the fine scale, but Dean's loud announcing and his parading into the rooms, excited to be stretching his legs, even if it was just to commute into a shitty motel room, leant a tired smile to Sam's lips. He wasn't as tired as Dean, having slept in the car, but the warmth of the setting sun and the slowness of the traffic hadn't done anything for his awareness, so he nearly stumbled as he pulled himself out, even as he gazed upward to a starless night sky.

"It's a shame, isn't it?" Cas said from beside him, and Sam jerked in surprise as, even wingless, Cas could still sneak up on him. Cas mistook his surprise for confusion, and nodded upward, letting his blue gaze settle on the cloudless, lightless expanse. "That light down here means that there is no light up there. That light must be _borrowed_."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, slightly uncomfortable and still regaining momentum. But he looked up again all the same, tilting his head just-so, letting himself get lost in the abruptness of it. "Yeah."

"Sammy! Hurry up, would you?"

"That's my cue," Sam muttered awkwardly, letting his gaze drop and turning to Cas for one final, evasive nod goodbye. Cas didn't seem unperturbed, just smiling back before dropping back into a nonchalant slump, letting his eyes flick from point to point, from the places where the constellations should have been to the places where the planets should have been.

Sam pulled his duffel bag out of the trunk and before setting off into the main lobby and through into his room, he looked back to the angel, gaze lost amidst the starless heaven.

He moved away though, and didn't look back, when the demon joined him. Meg pressed herself against the impala, leaning on the black, sleek sides and tilted her chin to the same angle as Cas. Because when the light caught her face, she looked sad, lonely.

And Sam had to wonder, really, how it felt for something so dead to finally die.

* * *

"We're extremely sorry for your loss, Mr. Bright," Sam consoled, standing side by side in front of Steven Bright's family home with Dean. "And right now, all we can do is work with you to the best of our abilities to figure out some way to find your son."

Dean smiled in that serious, consoling smile he reserved for conning and hustling, and with another desperate, sullen look, the man invited the two 'agents' into his house.

"What did you say your names were again?" he asked gruffly, turning them into the living room and offering them to both take a seat on the double seater couch.

"Uh, we didn't," Dean answered. "This is agent Bramlett, and I'm agent Walker."

The man narrowed his eyes. "Isn't that...Fleetwood Mac?"

Sam stiffened, but Dean looked nonplussed. He barked out a laugh and immediately set out a polished, comfortable exterior. "Yeah, we get that one all the time. Don't we, Bramlett?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed, managing a half smile and meeting Mr. Bright's eyes so as to not seem suspicious. He knew the tells, he knew what people looked for. Sam Winchester, never let it be understated, knew how to lie.

"So," Dean started, sitting up fully and adjusting the sides of his jacket and starting carefully. "Did Steven seem to be acting... _strange_ , to you, at the time he disappeared?"

"Strange?" The older man asked tiredly, giving up the tired smile of someone who didn't know where to begin. "With Steven, that never even began to cover it."

Sam exchanged a quick look with Dean and then he leant forward, frowning. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bright. Would you be able to expand on that?"

"Sure," the man offered easily. He looked upstairs and nodded, in the direction that must have been Steve's room. "He always went up there, tinkering away with bits of bones and old books that he'd get delivered into our mail box when they thought I didn't notice. Managed to make the most terrible smells and scared our daughter, Tabitha. We told him to stop—"

"So, like, Witchcraft?" Sam asked, tilting his head in question and keeping his gaze and tone as neutral as possible.

"Yeah, I s'pose," Mr. Bright replied, and though Sam could see that he didn't particularly like his sons practises, he still didn't hold it against him. He still loved him.

"And, who was it, again, that sold the books to your son?" Dean asked, reverting the conversation back to the more typical police work to avoid suspicion. It was a method they often used, denying interviewees the confusion of their off questions by voiding their suspicions.

"I don't know, some place online I believe," the father answered sourly, glancing off to the side to have a private moment to himself with his displeasure in modern technology and the new wonders of accessibility. He looked up sharply when he realised what they were insinuating, searching from Dean to Sam. "You don't think that had anything to do with it, do you?"

"We think that Steven must have been very interested, and that his practised might give us clues to where he is now," Sam assured him calmly, keeping the man under control with a serious, calming gaze. "Don't worry, Mr. Bright. We'll find your son."

The man lost his fire and averted his eyes again, this time seeking comfort in wariness than solace in irritation. "Of course." He looked up, but focused on neither of them, and Sam could tell that their welcome at the Bright household was coming to an end. "And if there's anything I can do to help you, please, tell me."

Sam knew, beyond reasonable doubt, that his son was dead. But he couldn't say that, and there was no comfort in hearing your worst fears confirmed. So he did what he was supposed to. He planted a smile on his face, looked placating and comforting at Steve's father and nodded as Dean offered assurances.

"If there is, one more thing," Dean hesitated, spinning the end of his spiel to a close. "Could we look through your son's room, before we go?"

 _Now_ the father looked suspicious, and Sam knew that if the pleasantness of the house and the way he'd been evaluating them for the past moments were anything to go by, then Mr. Bright was clever enough to tell the difference between their FBI badges and the real deal. "The police have already gathered all the evidence that they think is important to the case?"

"We are, well aware of that," Sam quickly put in, cutting off whatever Dean had been about to offer. "We just have an inkling that there's something that they're overlooking."

"Really?" He asked, unconvinced. "They were pretty thorough."

"Well, they're certain that there's some part of the picture they're missing," Dean pronounced evenly, not leaving room for discussion. "And we'd rather you let us help you than force us to come back later with a warrant."

They were totally bluffing now, they had no way of getting a real court order, and the fact that they would have _time_ to come back after. The demon infestation was getting worse, with Cas certain that there were more demonic omens swarming over Brooklyn and surrounding areas than there was in New Orleans.

He and Meg were checking out the bodies of the crash victims, finding out if there were any signs of possession. Cas was fairly sure that he'd have the juice to decide which one had been the one under the control of the demon, and from that they might be able to backtrack. Hopefully, and Sam knew it was a bitter hope, the possessed had been from Brooklyn, because at least it'd give them some common ground to start blasting their exorcisms.

"And you two are somehow able to see that?" Mr. Bright asked, looking Dean up and down, before moving onto Sam, unimpressed.

"Well, there certainly ain't no one like us in the entirety of the Bureau, that's for sure," Dean assured him, with a tight grin and when Mr. Bright was distracted, he passed a gleeful wink Sam's way.

Sam received it with a roll of his eyes, but he liked that idea. It reminded him of what he was fighting for, what he was aiming for' all that talk about being separate and different from the bureau. The world was at stake, and he had to fight harder, be better, impersonate FBI agents and lie to grieving parents, because there was nobody else who could do what they did. And while it was daunting and eternal, that massiveness, that undefinable void, it was also humbling. And Sam had always appreciated, in the end, being brought down a peg.

Steve Bright's room was exactly as Sam would assume a normal 16 year old's room to be like. Messy, clothes on the floor, pictures of sports stars and busty ladies pinned haphazardly onto the wall. But Steve was far from the usual kid, and it's normality was worrying Sam. Dean and Sam snapped gloves on to keep up appearances, and wandered through the room aimlessly, before each settled at the opposite ends.

"He stopped the witchcraft, or...whatever, a few weeks ago," Mr. Bright announced himself, moving into the room and looking sombrely around from the neatly made bed to the shuttered off window. He ran a hand over a black scorch mark on the desk, and Sam assumed that it had something to do with it.

Sam was content to let the conversation dwindle off into silence from there, but Dean gestured for him to keep it going. Now that Sam considered it, Mr. Bright was probably in there to ensure that anything they were taking wasn't too private or too irreplaceable.

Sam stumbled for something more to add as Dean poked around in the highest amount of privacy he could accumulate. "So...uh, why...why was that?" Sam asked, frowning in concentration at the father.

"He nearly burnt the house down," Mr. Bright smiled fondly, tapping the desk again, that black scorch mark catching Sam's eye again. While Sam was no expert in pyrotechnics, nor even slightly informed on any sort of fire lighting, other than the grave desecration types, but he was sure that a fire that small was a reasonably small risk of a full blown house fire. Sam wasn't about to correct him, though. He needed to keep the man relaxed and on side, but he also sort of got it. In a parents eyes, every step is a leap and every twig a sprained ankle. Nothing was anything without the worst possible consequence. Sam let his mind entertain for a second, the notion of kids, but almost immediately shut it down.  Hunters now and Hunters before him had all shared the same, invisible mantra. No kids, die young, die bloody and save as many people as you could.

Dean was poking around, searching for Steve's spell books and Sam desperately reached out for something else to talk about. "So, you...you said you had a daughter? What other family do you have?"

"My wife died a few years after Tabitha was born," Mr. Bright said, in that bored, rehearsed voice that Sam recognised as the one that those who had repeated a tragedy too many times used. You lose connection with the words, the event doesn't seem real and all of a sudden, as well as being in grief, you are also giving away the very essence of the grief and missing that you need so badly. He just looked sad now, and so he looked ready to shrug out of the room. "So, I guess I'll leave you to it."

"Yeah, thanks," Sam said, almost distractedly. He turned back to the shelves just as Mr. Bright slowly walked away.

"What have we got?" he asked in a low voice, turning to Dean who'd been ruffling through the draws of his desk. From what Sam could see, the laptop had been taken away to be investigated, but he knew if it was going to be anything to lead them to suspect that he'd been summoning demons, it was going to be in one of the spell books.

Which, as it may have been,  had been taken as well.

"Nothing yet," Dean said, looking back at him and easing open another draw, rifling through a collection of pages for homework and the odd pen and pencil. Sam hoped that in the precious few hours after Steven disappeared, when most of the clues would be found and they had the highest chance of finding him, they would have brushed off the depths of old draws for things more accessible. And Sam wouldn't have blamed them for not looking through the ones Dean was, because while it was a likely hiding place for a spell book you wanted to keep out of sight from your Dad, it was stuffed full of old papers and dead pens, nothing to give the indication that it had been touched in the past _year_.

"Right," Sam said, moving off to the nightstand, and digging through the underwear draw, and then the shirts, then the pants and the then the draw of miscellaneous things that don't belong in anything else.

There was nothing between the fabrics, just a stretch of the typically nice and yet not entirely nice _looking_ clothes that came from not buying for yourself, and the common hint of lavender, which must have been the soap used to clean the clothes.

But just as Sam was about to pull away, his fingers tipped along the spine of a leathery book, and, almost breathlessly, he reached up and pulled it out, a firm _click_ hear when the book was entirely removed from its contraption.

"Hey dude, I don't think these draws have been touched in years. This one's from 2009—"

"I think I got something," Sam said, leafing through the book, the leather pressing into his fingers, reading through the Latin translations and mentally trying to translate what he knew as he went through. No key words jumped out at him, but when he paused at a particular page, he could make out that it was definitely a recipe of some sort, some sort of minor spell.

"Spell books?" Dean asked, looking over Sam's shoulder to the leather bound book, eyes flicking to where Sam's had, and although Dean was severely lacking in the Latin translation department (he didn't even know what the _albative case_ was, for God's sakes) he did recognise the format. "Spell _book_." He corrected himself.

"If there's anything on demon summoning, we can know if it _was_ him who summoned the demon, and we can also know what sort of demon he summoned," Sam said, satisfied, snapping the book shut and putting it into his pocket.

"Excellent work, Watson," Dean congratulated, hitting him on the back and standing. Sam copied him, keeping a hand over his pocket in, awkwardly trying to absently disguise the bump.

Mr. Bright saw them out, opening the door for them and bidding them a farewell from the top of his steps. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a speeding little girl who stopped short next to her father. She had curly hair smoothed into a braid, with curls messily springing up over her eyes.

Sam and Dean paused, facing her and then looking up to her father questioningly.

"Hiya, Tat," Mr. Bright smiled down to her, before looking up to the brothers. "This is Tabitha, my daughter." His smiled puckered and he held her close, but she didn't seem to respond.

She just stared at them, eyes wide with curiosity, gaze held unflinchingly. Sam imagined that those staring eyes would follow after him for the rest of his life, they'd creep into his soul and bleed into his nightmares.

There was something very off about her. Something possessively off.

And Sam felt a twitch, in his stomach, the same flavour as that time he sensed someone was lying. It was Sarah's blood, tweaking his system, warning him that something was off. Sam didn't react though, keeping a pleasant smile on his face and sending the demon a warm look.

"She hasn't spoken," Mr. Bright offered, to fill the silence, looking down at his daughter and smoothing her hair back. "Not since Steve disappeared."

The door closed and Dean shot Sam a meaningful glance.

"So," his older brother said, as they settled into their strides and made out to the impala. "Definitely possessed daughter, son who might have summoned it."

Sam grimaced, uncomfortable. "Dean, we can't _kill_ that little girl."

Dean seemed to hesitate, but it wasn't out of disagreement. And maybe it was because he was always supposed to be the hardass, and maybe it was because from the first moment that they'd been thrust towards each other and told to hold on as tightly as they could, Dean had always been keen on taking the hard road. But when he looked over at Sam, his eyes were bright, but cautious. "Yeah. I know."

* * *

"Cas managed to gank the three demons we traced from being the main instigators for the crash," Meg informed them as the brothers entered into the bar where they'd arranged to meet, greeted by Meg's dissatisfied scowl and Cas's ducked head.

"Good," Dean said, refusing to acknowledge Meg's side of the story. His brother, however, was not so forgiving.

"So you weren't able to get anything on Crowley?" Sam asked, and Meg shook her head.

"No, actually, so I'm as far from finding Crowley as I ever was."

"Well, maybe not," Sam said, pulling Steven's book from his pocket and offering it to the demon. "Witchcraft. That missing kid was dabbling in it and we think his sister has been possessed."

"Got any proof?" Meg asked, leafing through the book, frown growing.

Cas broke his silence, prompted by curiosity. "Yes. How can you tell?"

"I, I _sensed_ it," Sam managed, holding his hand unconsciously over his stomach, looking from Dean, who had heard his version on the car road over, and then to Cas, who's eyes widened with understanding.

"Sariel's blood," Cas said, reverently, almost breathless.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, pulling his hand away and resting it on the table between them. He wasn't sure how he felt, but he knew that the affects were fading. Sarah had said a week, and he was inclined to believe her. He just wasn't sure if he was inclined to be happy about it.

Because she'd more or less said that the reason he was losing her grace o quickly was because he hadn't purified himself completely with the trials. And he was still tainted by the demon blood and by Lucifer and by all those other things he had no way to control.

And it just wasn't _fair_.

"Anything else, any symptoms, major changes in manner?" Meg asked, fingering her lip thoughtfully, running through the facts. "The ones we met were pretty basic, from what we could tell." She scowled. "Before Cas _killed_ them."

Cas looked exasperated. "They were about to _kill_ you, Meg."

"I could've taken 'em."

"Uh, she...hasn't been speaking since her brother disappeared?" Dean attempted, interrupting the sour demon and defensive angel, looking across at Sam who gave him a very unhelpful, noncommittal shrug.

But Cas and Meg both nodded, turning easily from their disagreement to the matter at hand. Cas looked to Meg who had turned back to the Latin, eyes narrowing as she read through a passage. "Yes, that is a common symptom of being possessed by a very lesser class demon."

"Whoa, wait, how low can you go?" Dean asked, looking from Meg, who'd raised her head from the spell book.

Meg shrugged, not interested. "Super low."

"I thought...I thought _black_ eyed demons who were the lowest," Sam frowned, looking at Meg, who slammed her book shut, glaring at Sam.

"Uh, _excuse_ me?"

"Oh, you know what he meant," Cas chastised, and Meg did back down, sighing and not replying, muttering to herself as she translated one of the pages. Cas looked thoughful as he turned back to the boys. "The classes of demons aren't as easily spelled out as angelic factions. Demons create more power and can move through the ranks easily, and therefore their places are fluid. Of course, demons like Lilith, Alistair and Abaddon had spelled out, easily read power sources and reaches. But especially black eyed demons, the system is..." Cas made a face. "Blurred, at best."

"Right," Sam nodded, not understanding in the slightest.

"Hey, Pigpen, Linus, Charlie," Meg called over, looking up from the book. "Lucy has something."

 "What's happened, Meg?" Cas asked frowning down at the page she was reading, narrowing his eyes.

"This book," she waved it up, pages flapping unceremoniously amongst the smokey, disgusting air of the bar. A few men from a table or so over glanced up as she caught their attention, but returned to their beers pretty soon after that. Dean loved bars for that exact reason. A non-personal, nearly entirely private forum to run over ideas. He could yell that Lilith was in town and some guy would pass it off as a drunk dream.

The hunting community really relied on alcohol far beyond than just as anti-depressants.

"What about it?" Dean frowned. He paused and rewound, taking it into account again. "It _is_ a spell book, right?" As much as he knew about witches, he still hadn't bothered to pick up beyond the very most basic of Latin. Sam had managed to get him to learn the English version of an exorcism, but beyond that he was pretty much helpless. Sam, on the other hand, had always had a knack for it. In the beginning, after he'd gotten over his initial fear (in the very, _very_ beginning), there'd been a time when hunting wasn't so bad. And where Dad was a hero and the monsters he fought were the baddies. In that time, Sam had memorised Verb charts and noun declensions, swallowed up rules and exceptions, and read all he could on prepositions and set phrases. But that time blurred passed pretty quickly, and Dean had bitterly waved it farewell.

One of the monsters, one of those whom Dean had been certain was evil and wrong, when the world wasn't a mismatched turn of shades of grey, scoffed derisively and threw the book onto the table. "Whole lot of nothing, fellas."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, picking it up gingerly and looking through it, removing, with a small wince, one of Meg's bar nuts from the spine of one of the pages.

"It's all small time crap," Meg waved her hand derisively. "Fixing plants and assisting in illnesses. Nothing even _remotely_ demon-summoning big. Not even sell-your-soul to the demon big."

"So, there's no way Steve could have summoned the demon?" Sam asked fruitlessly, running a hand through his hair and carefully closing the book, letting it lie on the table for them all to look at, caught up in the step back of the moment.

"Nope," Meg shrugged. She turned to Cas questioningly. "Any way something this major could have summoned a demon?"

"Hardly," Cas shook his head. "If what you're saying is true, then there is very little possibility that Steven would have had that sort of power."

Meg looked at them both expectantly, but Dean just gazed at her coldly.

"Meg, we _believed_ you."

"Would've been a first," Meg muttered.

"So what?"

"Well, now I think I might be right," Meg sighed.

"Got some plan you want to share?" Dean asked, torn between suspicion and curiosity.

"Not plan, _theory_ ," Meg stressed. She slumped into her seat and crossed her arms moodily. "I don't think the demons here are Crowley's. I mean, I had my suspicions, but really..." she trailed off and sighed again, taking her time to finish up. "Demons this loud, this dominant? Crowley's stupid, but he's not that stupid. He knows that you're looking for him, especially after his suggestion about the souls paid off, and he knows that when you do find him, his luck might be running out."

"Who's demons are they, if they aren't Crowley's?" Sam asked, and Dean shared Sam's lack of enthusiasm. If there was _another_ up and comer, Dean was going to shoot himself in the foot and use the recuperating period to buy a small business and move to San Francisco.

"Whoa, chill, nothing that severe," Meg assured them, eyebrows raised, raising her hands to placate them. "But I think that they're leader _less_. Like after Azazel was killed and all the demons went _haywire_ until Lilith took the reins. So, yeah, they're like me." Meg bared her teeth in a grin. "Side acts in the Resurrection of Meg Masters."

"Great," Sam said moodily, joining Meg in slipping into a seat on the high bar table and pulling out a handful of nuts from the complimentary bowl in the middle of the table. "So now, we have to get the rest of them. Right?"

"Meg and I killed four already," Cas said nonchalantly, legitimately unconcerned with the fact that their tally sat nicely at 4-0. "This one should be no trouble."

"I'll wear my hunting jacket," Meg told them easily, looking like she was ready to head off.

"Well, there's this thing," Dean said, uncomfortable. "It's inside a girl. Just a kid."

Meg blinked. "I'll wear my hunting jacket... _sadly_."

"Meg, we're not killing an innocent little girl," Sam snapped, and Dean almost looked over at his brother in surprise. It was the most intense and angry he'd gotten over something in a while.

Meg paused. "May I ask why?"

"Because she's...just a kid," Dean said, grasping out for some way to say that she had her whole life in front of her, that she didn't ask for this, that her father had already lost a son, that she was _just a kid_.

"You kill adults all the time," Meg pointed out.

And perhaps Dean had unsensitised himself to killing humans, fully grown humans, but there was something that got to him, when he thought about Tabitha, and thought about her brother. Siblings, motherless, entangled with the supernatural. Things had been written a little different for him and Sam, and maybe that's where they would have ended up.

And he sure as hell'd be pissed if someone killed his brother without him there to protect him.

"Too bad," Dean said gruffly, pulling away from the table and looking to Sam to copy him, who did, after swallowing a couple more bar nuts. "Our case, our rules."

Cas looked relieved, nodding to Dean, preparing to farewell, and Meg just rolled her eyes, muttering something about 'communism' and 'un-American'.

* * *

The demon possessing the body of Tabitha Bright was having problems with the steering. Not a particularly smart demon, it'd been chasing motor skills since her possession a few days ago, and was still working on the fine tuning. It'd figured out running and breathing, finger twitching and blinking, but it had been such a long time since it had possessed someone, and a longer time since it had been entirely human.

The thing about demons so low level, is that they were probably heinous people in a last life. Being terrible once doesn't constitute power later, and it's sort of part of Hell's torture, that they give the bad things nothing, and the good everything.

Lilith was the first pure, corrupted soul. A child, like the one it was possessing now.

Lucifer himself had been the angel of light, struck down, turned gruesome and savage.

The demon wondered what was happening with that. What Lucifer was doing. Whether the apocalypse was still going to happen.

It was all a bit exciting, really.

The phone rang shrill throughout the house, and copying Tabitha's muscle memory, the demon followed the sound to the phone. It picked up the receiver and held it next to Tabitha's ear. Tabitha automatically went to open her mouth to speak, but the demon had no way to move the tongue, or direct the lips, so it just stayed there, pressing the receiver against its ear.

"Hello, Tabitha," a voice at the other end said. The demon didn't know if it was male or female, and it was of no fault of the line or the other person. Everything was getting furry and distant, and the world took a sharp dive. "Your fathers out. Working, isn't he? Are you old enough to stay home alone?"

The demon unconsciously rubbed at a spot of the babysitters blood on her hand and didn't answer, staring at the wall.

"Are you listening?"

The demon didn't respond.

"Good," the other line crackled for a bit, before the low, purposeful voice at the other end started to talk again. " _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis—"_

The demon might not have been smart, but it knew better than to listen to an exorcism, using Tabitha's small hands to slam the phone back into the receiver, effectively shutting it up. It took deep breaths, trying to quell the nauseating turn in its stomach and the shortness of its breath.

"Satanica potestas," Sam announced walking into the room without smiling, without regard, staring at the demon with shadow kissed eyes. He paused as the demon fell back under the exorcism. "Sorry. I let myself in."

The demon snarled at him and tried to claw, but something held him back. Strong arms wrapped around the young girls middle, and heavy hands pressed her arms into her back. The demon snarled, but the man was unforgiving. "Remember us?"

The demon did. The two agents, who'd come to investigate Steve's death. They must have been hunters, although the last time the demon had checked, Hunters moved around the darkness, not through it. Hunters were the things that battled the shadows, not embraced it. Hunters were to be feared, yes, but for their prowess. Not for their trickery or darkness.

 The demon had to wonder, as it screamed again and the exorcism was finished being recited, just how long it had been dead.

And how much darker the world would become _after_ it had climbed out again.

* * *

" _Tabitha Bright, the sister of Steven Bright who had disappeared a few days ago from his Brooklyn home, was found unconscious last night as emergency services were called to the Bright household after the youngest was heard screaming. This is particularly notable, considering that Mr. Bright informed reporters that his youngest had not spoken since her brother had been taken."_

"Are you going to listen to this the whole drive?" Sam asked, groaning as he sat back in his chair.

"Course not," Dean said, grinning over as Sam adjusted himself into the leather. "Gotta finish at some point, right?"

Sam groaned and rested his hands over his eyes, and Dean tried not the scoff a spout of laughter at him and his ridiculous pose.

" _The body of Kate Lake, a Brooklyn native and babysitter to the Bright's was found murdered in the living room. Police, at the moment, refuse to comment on leads but have given out a statement that causes us to believe that they have several in mind. Mr. Bright—"_

Sam sighed and leant forward, snapping the radio off and huffing back into his seat, the sound of his turning vaulted in the silence.

"So," Dean said, looking over again, eager to find the deserted roads and backstreet towns that they'd claimed as their own. "Back to the bunker?"

"Recalibrate, read up, catch some sleep," Sam listed sleepily, hands held comfortably over his chest, not looking up as the night lights of the city passed them by. Meg and Cas had decided to leave as soon as they were finished with exorcising Tabitha. And both had gone their separate ways. Meg had disappeared off to who-knows-where tracking down Crowley, and Cas had decided to follow up on Sarah's concern about a growing resistance against her and Heaven. So the fellowship had broken, and their odd passage of heaven and hell had dispersed into their fitting places.

Cas was off to smite the unrighteous, and Meg was off to gain power.

The fittingness of the situations almost seemed uncomfortable to Dean, but he ignored it. Meg deserved her freedom, and Cas would reason with the angels, do everything he could, before he killed them.

The world was changing, but it wasn't the major events, but the small details.

Cas had assured them that Tabitha was probably the last demon terrorising Brooklyn, seeing as they were very territorial at best and seemed to despise sharing of any kind. He said that any signs had disappeared completely after Tabitha had been exorcised.

Dean wasn't convinced, but they'd had to leave. Someone would have seen them breaking into Tabitha's house, and their descriptions would prompt Mr. Bright to remember them.

 _That_ they didn't need.

"You ok, Sammy?" Dean asked finally, trying to summarise going to Hell, meeting Meg, taunting by Lucifer and exorcising a child in the cusp of one sentence.

It was enough though and Sam, though he seemed dimmed and resting, had a brightness to his eye that shone _thankfulness_ mingled with uncontrollable grief.

"I think so," Sam finally said, like he was trying to carry a lot in one sentence as well. Like the words he was saying spelt out something bigger than it actually was. "You know? I finally think so."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, letting the road roll under his tires and the earth tilt so that he might never have to slow down. "Yeah, I get you."

* * *

The Impala's mileage was appalling, but that didn't stop Sam from withholding grumbling when Dean made his bi-daily stop for gas. Dean filled it up, and as soon as he had, he sent Sam in to buy snacks and, if they had it, a box of water to be kept in the back seat.

"Hey," Sam greeted the cashier, holding a packet of chips, a packet of M&M's and four bottles of water; all they had left.

"Good morning," she greeted kindly, taking the objects from him and putting them across the scanner. She smiled at him as she placed the first of his items in a plastic bag. "I'm Kristy."

"Hi, uh, Edward," Sam said, his smile a little forced but more out of eagerness to be gone than awkwardness in her company, choosing the name of the credit card he had on him at the time. "Nice day."

"Sure is, especially at this time of year," she agreed, picking up the first of the plastic bags and placing it on the counter for Sam to pick up. "You heading somewhere special, Ed?" Kristy asked, placing the first of the water in, looking at him with interest.

Sam supposed that she didn't get many customers at this part of the world, so he nodded, involving himself in the conversation. "Yeah, me and my brother. We're heading to Kansas City for some Police Convention."

Kristy looked even further intrigued, packing in the last of the water with a reluctant shove and taking it out of the bay for him to take a hold of. "Huh. That is cool. You and your brother policeman?"

"Well, yeah," Sam said, taking the second bag and handing over the cash. "I'm the detective, though."

"Very impressive," Kristy smiled at him and handed over a receipt. "See you soon, then."

"Yeah," Sam thanked her, shooting her a quick half smile before making for the door and the satisfying rumble of the impala parked just outside. "Thanks, see you."

The door swung shut, and Kristy looked after Sam unblinkingly. Her nametag glistened in the early morning sun and her blonde hair was in easy curls about her neck. She looked clean and safe, but if you looked at her hands and saw how tightly they held things, or how her lips arched into a disgusted scowl when she thought no one was looking, you might catch your breath, count your sins realise that there was something wrong.

That this angel, with blonde hair and a good, Christian Daddy was far from an angel at all.

Kristy didn't close her eyes for a long time after the impala drove away.

"Goodbye, Sam."


	11. All You Need is Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of Love driven murders in Connecticut leads the brothers out of the bunker and back onto the road.

Natasha had found the love of her life, and his name was William Scott.

Of course, she'd never technically _met_ the guy, but she'd seen him, often, coming into the cafe where she worked and ordering the same thing every day. They had a connection, she and him. A connection she hadn't really noticed when she'd first seen him, but one that came thrumming full force into her chest one January afternoon. One moment, she was fixing a cup of coffee for a customer, and the next, she was watching him walk, completely entranced.

She swears, her heart skipped a beat when he looked back at her and smiled.

Natasha served him his coffee, heart in throat, nearly salivating as he spoke to her and handed over the cash. His hand, warm and firm grazed hers as he handed the money over, and their eyes met, startled, as a thrill of electricity flew through their skin.

Natasha drew back sharply, shaking herself out of a stupor and sticking the money into the machine, charging through his order. He didn't seem affected, other than put out by her weird behaviour, but Natasha could work with that. For one, glorious moment, she imagined herself with him. They'd talk and laugh and kiss, and they'd be in such deep, devoted _love_.

She could see it, stories of their tale, movies, book deals. There was something so deep and so profound about their union, something that stirred a deep yearning within her. That he was her _other half_. That he was the rest of her _soul_.

Natasha drew short, and the moment ended as he left the shop.

She was scaring herself. The man had a wife. Had a _family._ And, not to mention, he was about 10 years older than her and wore man-sandals around town, even in winter.

Natasha couldn't help it though. She imagined herself running her hands through his hair, pressing her lips roughly to his, tasting the sharp bitterness of the coffee he always bought from her, arching her back in pleasure as he pressed his lips to her neck...

Natasha shook herself and went on with her daily activities. But the more she fought against thinking about him, the more pressing he became. Suddenly she was imagining her hands across his bare chest, running her tongue—

 _No_ , Natasha stopped, closed her eyes and fought off the images, the feelings, totally unwarranted and totally unwelcome.  She didn't _want_ to love William Scott. He wasn't even that _hot_.

And he was _married_. He had a _kid_. She was 25 and looking to make a move into the real world. They were the worst possible people for each other.

Natasha took a long, trembling breath. This was getting out of hand. She barely even knew the guy. All she did see of him was the off chance that he'd come to the cafe to buy something to eat and a black coffee to drink.

She pressed the palms of her hands hard into her eyes and counted slowly to five, before pushing away and moving through the cafe. A few more hours and she could head home, have a cold shower and...read the bible or something.

* * *

Natasha had found the love of her life, and her name was Maria Shrove.

Natasha hadn't even known she was attracted to girls, but that didn't stop her heartache for the lovely Maria, who'd stepped through the doorway with half an hour to spare before she could run off home to cuddle up with her cat and try to contain herself.

"Hi," Maria had said, and Natasha had been smitten from the get-go.

Natasha wondered if she'd accidently taken something, because as soon as she thought about it, her immense feelings towards William rose up as well, and the fantasies of Maria and Will were tossed together.

It was confusing, it was terrifying, it was...kinda hot.

But Natasha was smarter than that. She'd gone to college, and her mom had always said that she had a good head on her shoulders. She didn't know Will, she didn't know Maria, and first sight was nothing to base a declaration of love on. Maria was beautiful, with her long red hair and bright blue eyes, with that smattering of freckles and smooth, pale skin...but Natasha wasn't in _love_ with her. Interested, maybe.

Natasha poked the pen in her mouth as she finished up the order. With a final stroke of brilliance, she scribbled her number on the cup and handed it to Maria meekly.

Their fingers brushed, like with William, except this time, when the spark rang out between the naked skin, Maria jerked as well.

The woman smiled, brushing her red hair back from her shoulder. "So, when do you get off?"

"For you?" Natasha asked, eyes wide, stars caught in her gaze as her heart pumped madly in her chest. "Now."

Maria smiled and waited patiently while Natasha took her apron off, hung it up and joined up with her new friend.

She almost drew back, that reasonable head pulling her into the light of reality, forcing her to remember that she didn't know Maria, that she was doing nothing good. But Maria took her hand, and Natasha's misgivings melted away.

This was right. This was true love.

Maria smiled at her, and Natasha felt that her heart was about to burst.

* * *

Natasha Scott had met the love of her life. And his name was James Ryan.

* * *

The Bunker had been untouched since they left it coming from Hell, and Sam was struck with the oddly disconcerting though that, if it all ended, and he and Dean died as they probably were going to on the back end of some dusty road that no one knew about, like they probably were, then no one would come back here. Perhaps Cas, if he survived their prophesised demise, or Charlie, seeking her and Dorothy a doorway back into Oz. Maybe even Jody or Meg or Garth.

But probably not.

And the bunker would remain unspoiled. And their things would litter the floor where they'd been left, jackets on the back of sheets and mugs sat dirty and crusting on the kitchen sink. Sam's clothes were slowly making their way into the draws in his room, and Dean's had been settled since they'd decided to make it their new home. He wondered what somebody would think, if they came to their home. If they'd see Dean's things and think that Dean was the only one who lived here. That Sam was just visiting.

Something about that caught in Sam's throat. Something that although there were two of everything; two dirty mugs, two messed up plates, two chairs with compressions marking their bodies gathered around the library table, there was nothing that said that Sam had ever been there at all.

He was a ghost.

"You alright?" Dean asked, glancing back as he pushed passed his frozen brother, carrying the weapon bag over his shoulder and adjusting it from hand to hand, eyes meeting Sam's. Not worried, not yet, just curious.

"Yeah," Sam assured his, hating how raspy and distant his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and attempted a smile, eyes still drifting listlessly from the library to where he knew the kitchen was. Dean thought it was their home, do why couldn't he? Why couldn't he embrace it with the same gusto? He tried again, with his newly cleared throat. "Yeah, seriously dude. Fine."

"Right," Dean sent him a hesitant look before walking off, the clunking of metals saluting every step he took, banging against his shoulder as his feet padded heavily on the stairs.

Sam watched him go, throat tight again, breathing shifting uncomfortably in his lungs. But he ignored it, not moving while his brothers head disappeared from view. His footsteps echoed alone throughout the bunker, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts about family, and his big brother, and what home really was.

And whether it could really be defined as a place at all.

So Sam took off after his brother, and his feet were steady as he made his way through where he was living.

At the moment, perhaps it was home. Perhaps this place was to him what it symbolised to Dean. And maybe Dean agreed with him on why he saw it like that. Because home wasn't the bunker. Home wasn't even the Impala. It wasn't Bobby's burnt house and it _definitely_ wasn't Lawrence. That tainted place would hold no real traction in the softer places in Sam's heart.

Home was here. With his brother, footsteps echoing around each other, hidden and warm together within the earth.

As sappy and dumb as it sounded to think, Sam knew it would be stupider to say, but he said it anyway, under his breath, before he got over his awkwardness and learnt to love it. That tiny phrase. That little bit of perfection that he'd crafted for himself.

" _Home is a person_. _Home is you._ "

* * *

The Hunting community had hardly been up to their armpit in violent demonic possessions after the Escapees had run amok humanities without Crowley to tell them what to do, but they'd been busy all the same. Carlos had kept the boys up to date, but with Sam's new melancholic, blessed mood and Dean's aching muscles and tired soul, they'd ignored most of requests and denied all the others. They felt like they deserved at least a little rest, a few days for the nightmares to filter out and another few for contacting Meg and Cas and figuring out how everything was working out.

According to Cas, nothing had come up of Sariel's suspicions of an Angelic Rebellion, but he was still looking into it; scouring the globe had become a lot harder without his wings to guide him along.

Meg, on the other hand, was having a grand time. She hadn't found any demons to help lead her to Crowley, they'd been hidden under all the screaming of the 'Side acts' in her reincarnation. She'd killed a few demons, befriended a few demons, and exorcised a few down to the depths of Hell. She called Sam more than she called Dean, still sweet on the boy she'd picked on all those years ago, but Sam was more than liberal with the information she'd dished out whenever they settled down for the evening.

And whether it was with bottles of beer or buckets of popcorn really depended on their mood.

It had been lazy, a Rocky Marathon and cataloguing the vast hordes of information that the Men of Letters had gathered. Sam had been mainly onto the latter, typing out the notes made by the forefathers and sorting them into folders. He was getting through them, but it was going to take a while. Dean had allocated a few of his hours a day to helping his geek brother out, but he was really more of a hindrance. Twice Sam had chastised him about messing up his system, and uncountable times he'd managed to get on Dean's case about how he left the files once he'd finished with them.

Slow. Purposeful. Steady.

And, Dean had to admit, Guilty.

They should be out there, fighting, figuring stuff out, _hunting—_ like they were _supposed_ to be doing—but they weren't. They were taking the mother of Sick days, sleeping in and playing _Solitaire_ on their computer for God's sake. Like a bunch of freakin' _70_ year olds who didn't know how to use the internet.

Once it hit the two week mark, Dean started looking around. He deleted the history on their laptop after he'd used it, and let Sam think it was porn he was surfing for, when, in reality, he'd been cruising through the typical news sites for any little red flags.

It wasn't till the third time he did it, that he realised Sam's history had been deleted as well.

He smiled fondly, letting the white glow of the screen bask across his features. He was pretty sure that Sam had _not_ been surfing for explicit materials.

"Hey, Sam!"

"Yeah?" Sam exited the kitchen, over-full sandwich balancing in his hand and somehow, he'd managed to get a white streak of flour in his brown hair. Having made a sandwich. Sam's prowess in the kitchen never failed to entertain.

Dean let his brothers lack of culinary expertise slide for a moment and nodded towards the screen. "So, find anything?"

Sam frowned, borrowing his FBI acting and leaning against the walls. Dean might not have Angel juice pumping around his veins, but he still knew his little brother better than anyone. He could still tell when he was lying. "What do you mean?"

"The cases, Dumbo," Dean raised his eyebrows and gestured to the screen.

Sam immediately turned sheepish, dropping the charade (and nearly his sandwich) in the process and moving to Dean's side. "Aw, crap. Did I forget to delete the history?"

"No," Dean grinned, turning back to the screen and typing away diligently, poking through another slot of obituaries, without expanding any further.

Sam frowned and shoved Dean's shoulder. " _Jerk_."

"Bitch," Dean came back automatically, not looking up, frowning at a particularly odd death in California.

"Well, I think I found something," Sam sighed, taking up his seat and placing his sandwich on the table, where Dean tried not to feel revolted by the crumbs that Sam would probably forget to clean up. "Series of 'Passion induced Murders' in Connecticut. Husbands and Wives stabbing each other, random people stabbing each other, and more often than not, the perp will blame love."

"So what?" Dean asked, frowning, moving away from the laptop and frowned up at Sam. "We thinking Siren?"

"Maybe," Sam agreed, but still unconvinced, holding his fingers absently together, index's slowly fiddling with each other. Dean supposed having an open mind about the case was important, but his brother's indecision and vagueness was irritating to say in the least.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll bite. What are _you_ thinking, you absolute special snowflake?"

"It's just," Sam let his hands stop turning and entwined his fingers, setting his elbows on the sides of the chair and leaning back, looking distant, lost. Then he sighed and shook his head. "No, it's nothing. Nothing."

"Your Sarah Senses aren't still tingling, are they, Peter?" Dean asked, masking his worry with the light hearted jab. He tried not to let the real concern seep through, but the odd angle of Sam's eyes made him think that he hadn't taken as much care as he could have.

"No, no, nothing like that," Sam assured him, hand reaching up and rubbing his neck. He looked almost rueful as he met Dean's eyes. "Nothing like that at all."

* * *

"I can't explain it," the sheriff shook her head, hands crossed comfortably over her stomach as she looked at the brothers, eyes downcast as she revisited the recent madness that had overtaken her town. "It's..." She sighed, thoroughly disgruntled, looking at them helplessly. "It's bizarre, to say in the least."

"How many killings have there been so far?" Dean asked, frowning as he straightened his jacket and shifted more comfortably onto his seat.

"Five," she said easily, but familiarly. Like she'd known them, and the edge to her voice leant Sam to believe that she did. The town was small enough, after all. "Three women, two men."

"And all their statements were the same?" Sam asked, trying to wrap his head around it. Because didn't Sirens primarily go after men? And didn't the men always express regret afterwards? And they weren't killing _their_ loved ones, they were killing other _people's_ loved ones.

"Every one," The Sheriff agreed grimly, sighing and shaking her head in disbelief. "And none of them look like the feel like they've done anything wrong."

"But they all confessed?" Dean asked, backtracking, wondering how the two fit together. "How does that work?"

"Well, confess is _one_ word for it," she said tiredly, looking even more distraught as she relayed the events. "They walked down the street, screaming about what they did. Like everything was some big, bloody love letter, written just for them."

"And what were their exact words?" Sam asked, wondering if any patterns could give them clues to something other than a Siren.

The sheriff typed on her computer, pausing, looking at them for a moment before turning to them. "This is what we could get from the witness statements.  We tried to stamp out any irregularities but..."

"Easier said than done," Sam finished for her, giving her the world weary kinsman ship of a real FBI agent. She appreciated it, sending him a small smile before turning back to her screen, voice turning monotonous and guarded as she read out the statements. " _I did it for you, Jill. I killed him for us._ " She looked over at them. "That was Michael Hackett, killed his neighbour's husband, says that they were having a love affair, which the neighbour actively denies."

"Do all of the..." Dean struggled for the right word. " _Receivers_ of the 'Love Letters' deny that they were in a relationship?"

The Sheriff shook her head, snorting. "Hardly. In fact, Jill here seems to be the exception. Here," she clicked on the screen, bringing up the one from the next case. " _I love you, Baby, you're my whole world. I killed her for us, so that everyone can know how much we love each other._ That was Rachel Griffins, killed the wife of her College Professor. He came forward and demanded that we release her, that he loved her." She grimaced, sighing, folding her head into her hand, rubbing her temple. "Managed to give us enough evidence to charge him for accomplice to murder."

"Crap," Sam said, mouth drying as he thought about it. Love made people do stupid things, outrageous things, mind boggling things, and whatever was manipulating these people was taking advantage of one of the most prevalent weaknesses of the human soul. Sam couldn't help it, he cast his mind back to all the times love had stuffed things up for him. His Dad had loved his mother so much that he ended up tearing his children's lives. His mother had loved his father so much that she'd sold Sam's future agency to bring him back to life. Sam had loved Jess so much that he'd doomed her upon meeting.

How could it be, that something so pure, could be so selfish and selfless at the same time?

Romantic Love. Amy, Jess, Sarah, Madison, Ruby, Amelia. Sam swallowed the lump gathering in his throat and pushed the thoughts aside.

"Crap's right," the sheriff agreed. She pushed through the computer, mouse clicking as she brought up another witness statement. "I could read this out, but..." she grimaced again, hair dishevelled from where she'd run her hand through it. "It basically the same.

"What the Hell's goin' on here?" Dean asked, more Sam than the Sheriff, but she answered for him.

"Got no clue, Agent," she told them gravely. "I—"

She was interrupted by the shrill keening of her phone. She glanced at them apologetically before grabbing the receiver and setting it against her ear. Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, but his younger brother looked perfectly content to be patient and wait her out.

"What?" She demanded, eyes widening. She looked over to them and nodded, the gesture enough to set them on their feet, ready to move as she order them.

"Yes, yes, I'll be there right away," she nodded, scribbling something down on a sticky note she grabbed from the piles of stationary that cluttered around her desk. Her eyebrows were caught in a frown but she didn't seem upset. No, there was something about her that fired resistance and hope and _perhaps_. Something within her intangible but important.

"Bye, see you soon," she farewelled quickly, her phone hitting the receiver briskly, glancing up at the brothers, eyes bright and excited.

"What's happened?" Sam advanced forward, the electric tension in the room rising as she grabbed the coat slung over the back of her chair.

"There's been another victim," the sheriff relayed briskly.

Dean, having read the same feelings and tones that Sam had, tilted his head and frowned. "And...that's a _good_ thing?"

"Sure," She said, glancing over, eyes jumping quickly from each of them to the things she was gathering. "Because he's alive."

* * *

"So, what are you thinking?" Dean asked Sam in a low voice as they stood outside the corridor of the most recent victim. He was coming around, and on the Sheriff's order, she and they would be allowed to speak to him to get to the root of the cause. The Hospital staff seemed happy to oblige, and the nurse who'd shown them in looked almost bitter as she passed a glance to the hospital room where he was being kept.

Perhaps she'd lost a close family member, or a friend, and Dean couldn't hold her accountable for understandable resentment.

Sam exhaled heavily, looking absently at the door the lady sheriff had disappeared behind only a few minutes before. "Got no idea. Definitely not a siren, though."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Weird that two parties are getting infected by the whole thing."

"'Infected' is a funny way to put it," Sam commented, glancing over to his brother, looking lost in thought. Dean ran over his last line, and had to admit, while it had been a spur of the moment description, it did describe what was happening decently well.

"Maybe there's something in the water," Dean tried again, but Sam looked unconvinced.

"Nah, man," Sam shook his head. "Something weird's happening. Supernaturally weird. If it was in the water, everyone would be Pants-offing it."

Dean shot his brother a look. "Dude. Seriously?"

Sam, although distracted as he had been ever since arriving at the hospital, managed a half grin, dimples and all. "Sorry."

"So, what, though?" Dean wondered, to a brother who seemed equally lost. "Pagan god?"

"There were Pagan Gods in charge of love," Sam admitted. "Venus and Aphrodite, the Roman and Greek version of the same goddess, was the god of Beauty, Love and sexual desire. Frejya was the Norse god of Love, and then..." he spread his hands. "Countless others."

"But it sounds worth following up," Dean said, wondering what the Goddess of sexual desire would look like, and wondering if they were _finally_ getting another case with Strippers.

"Of course, there's been no actual recordings of the goddesses," Sam reminded him, shuffling a little to get out of the way of an empty bed being pulled down the hallway. "I have a theory that it was just the demon, you know, one of the seven Deadly sins. Lust."

"That does make some sort of sense," Dean agreed. "But...I dunno, man. What else have we got to go on?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut short but a gaggle of nurses quickly walking passed. Dean wasn't sure where they were going, and why their heavy white shoes made so little noise on the ground, but he did pick up on their conversation.

"And _she's_ pregnant—"

"—I sweat it's like the _15th_ this month—"

"—My Michael, you know, Mikey, he's been calling it the second baby boom—"

"—It's like the _60's_ out there, except, you know, without the racism and homophobia—"

"—I didn't know he was gay—"

"—Natasha Scott and Marie Singer? I never—"

They moved passed quite quickly, but looking at Sam, Dean could see that he'd heard all that his older brother had.

Dean raised his eyebrows, and Sam quirked his lips, looking to where the nurses had gone.

"Well, I'm all for sexual freedom," Dean said, crossing his arms, still amused. "But Sammy, this economy ain't ready for that many newborns."

"Pagan God?" Sam confirmed, looking around their immediate area to make sure that no one had heard.

Dean grinned. "Pagan God."

* * *

"What can you tell us, Doc?" Sam asked, as they walked side by side the doctor into the room where the most recent victim was being held.

"Abrasions to the hand and face, a broken rib, stab wounds to the stomach, strangulation marks around the neck," he recited dully, shaking his head at the end of his recital. He sighed and looked over to the brothers. "Somebody really wanted this guy dead."

"And the culprit?" Dean asked, glancing around behind him before they stepped toward the room with the victim.

"Confessed," the doctor informed them, grimacing. "Loudly." He looked at them both pointedly. "Publically."

"Like all the other killings," Sam regarded, looking at Dean who nodded, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning.

"Exactly," the doctor said. He sighed and gestured to the room. "Sheriff Dodds and Bart Smith will see you now."

Sam nodded and pushed the door open, looking back to thank the doctor. "Thanks, we'll just be in here if you need us."

The doctor nodded and walked away, too distracted by all that had been happening in his town to go over correct procedure. He could, of course, just assumed that they'd be well equipped with hospital's and the like, and, while they were, it worried Sam that these people were becoming so complacent. Distracted by grief and worry.

And Sam had to ask himself the same question that must have been haunting them; who would be next?

The door opened, smooth and light on well oiled hinges. Dean followed Sam through, catching the door before it could hit him and letting it close heavily behind him as he entered into the room. The Sheriff glanced over at them, nodding, before turning back to get the rest of his statement.

Sam looked at the man in the hospital bed and swallowed back a wince. He looked even worse than the doctor had described, angry red marks around his neck, pressed into his skin like folding fingers. His eye was half closed, but both looked up with their full ability to Sheriff Dodds, who was nodding and murmuring to him as she wrote in her book.

She slammed her notebook shut and turned to the brothers. "Bart, this is agents Young and Johnson who have been assigned to your case."

"Hey," the guy croaked out, throat scratchy and raw. Sam guessed that his windpipe had been severely compromised in the fight, but just smiled.

"How are we feeling, Bart?"

"Crappy," he said truthfully, clearing his throat and wincing, raising a tubed-up hand to feel at the sore redness.

"Can you take it from here?" Dodds asked, packing up her pen and shoving her notebook into her pocket. "I've got the full statement, but if you want to run some particulars..."

"Yeah, thanks," Dean smiled to her, giving her the full Steve McQueen. "As long as it's good with you."

If the lady Sheriff noticed him flirting, she didn't notice it or didn't care. Either way her face was nonchalant as she gave Bart a final farewell, turning out the door and into the busy hospital hallway.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Dean told him, as he and Sam went to opposite sides of the bed. "But dude, how'd you manage to survive this one?"

"Honestly?" Bart asked them, sounding oddly ashamed. "I was a coward. Pretended to play dead. Then he ran off, screaming after my girlfriend."

"Did you know him?" Sam asked, frowning, hands settling on the side of the bed, fingers playing idly with the edge of the blanket.

"Oh yeah, sure," Bart said, looking from Sam to Dean, eyes practically heavenward as he took in their massive heights. His voice was still croaky, and he winced every time he hit a hard K, but other than that he seemed coherent. "Me and Kayla, we knew him from school."

"So, he was in class with you?" Sam pressed.

"No, oh no," Bart frowned, looking from brother to brother again. "They haven't told you who it was?"

"Not yet," Dean admitted. He smiled, hard, trying not to look irritated. "Everything's still filing through. Who was it?"

"Our teacher," Bart said, confused again. He pushed himself up, making a wry face as the tubes tugged from his inner forearm and finger. "Yeah, our teacher. Mr. Shoemaker."

"So he was quite a bit older than you," Sam stated, thinking back to the other cases, and remembering something about a student and her college professor. That he could almost understand, the old student/professor niche was almost a cliché. He had to clear something up before he could follow his train of thoughts. Assuming things never got him anywhere. "And...how did your girlfriend—"

"Mia," Bart supplied.

"—feel about him?" Sam asked, looking across at Dean who'd been chasing the same thoughts in circles.

Bart opened his mouth to answer something hot and angry, but it petered off and he slunk into his seat. He looked away from their eyes, face fixed towards his hands, the tubes running out of his body and the slow beep from the machines around his bed seemed to rock with his change of mood. With the silence the hospital's noises heightened, and Sam already knew the answer.

"She hasn't come," Bart said finally, still not looking up. He finally did, meeting first Dean's eyes and then Sam's. "To see me. She hasn't come to see me."

Sam was finished with forcing the man to relive his girlfriend and teacher, so he pushed back and allowed Dean to take the front as the rest of the questions were asked and answered.

Sam looked at him, Bart, with the pink skin around his throat and the cracked rib he was obviously favouring. He'd lost her, lost her and what he'd thought as _true_ love because of this.

For some reason, the pagan god outline didn't sit right with Sam. Surely Aphrodite or Venus or Frejya would be all for the love that had just been ruined, the love that had just been taken away. Surely _that_ would be the love they were willing to preserve and create. It didn't make sense for something they already embellished and believed in to be taken away by the embellishers and those who had believed in it most.

 _None_ of it made sense.

* * *

"So, the girlfriend showed up," Dean said, between bites of his hamburger, looking across at Sam who was playing with his salad, fork pushing around the leafy green vegetables without much appeal from the man himself. Dean frowned and tried to break his brothers trance. "Hey, Sam?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah," Sam agreed, forking a mouthful onto the end of the utensil and balancing it on the side of the plate, dressing running off the tip of the leaves and into the rest of the foliage. "Don't worry. I heard you. Girlfriend made an appearance. Then what?"

"Said some romantic crap, you know, the usual; Romeo to my Juliet thing," Dean shrugged, taking another bite. He chewed and added something else. "She had to be sedated, I hear."

"Dude," Sam grimaced, throwing his spoon down in disgust. "Chew with your freakin' _mouth_ closed."

Dean made a pointed face, still chewing, before he swallowed and washed it down with the remaining dregs of his coffee. He was nearly finished, his plate polished in his race to ease the hunger that had been gnawing at his stomach since a missed breakfast. "So, yeah. She's not pleading anything yet, just demanding they let her pedo love-potion boyfriend go."

"Great," Sam murmured, only half listening.

Dean glanced down to Sam's untouched salad, raising an eyebrow. "Gonna eat that?"

"Do you want it?" Sam asked, and it was obvious to Dean that he set the question up so that no matter what Dean said, Sam could claim the opposite. That he'd just been joking, curious, serious, willing.

"No, I do not want your messed up, deer food," Dean made a face, placing his cup away from his meal and letting his dirty fingers hover in the air above his plate. "Anyway, _you_ have to eat it."

"Yeah, 'm not really hungry," Sam shrugged absently, pushing the plate away, still lost.

"You didn't eat breakfast," Dean reminded him, trying to get across to Sam without saying it that if he _didn't_ eat the food, Dean would force it down his throat. Not hungry? Yeah right. There was a vast difference between not hungry and not wanting to eat. His voice was a little weaker and richer in sincerity when he broke out the next line. "Seriously, dude. You gotta keep your health up."

It was enough to shock Sam out of his reverie and then even enough to push him out to grab the salad and, making a point of it, sticking his fork in and taking an exaggerated bite.

"What's up with you anyway?" Dean asked, before Sam could finish his mouthful and sass him out.

"Just thinking," Sam replied innocently, tucking another mouthful onto the fork and forcing it into his mouth. Dean tried not to wince, but it was a massive bite. It was like Sam was forcing it down, like he just wanted to get it over and done with as quickly as possible.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'll bite; what about?"

Sam shrugged, swallowing his massive mouthful. Dean wasn't sure whether he was worried or impressed that his brother had managed to get down half the salad in two tries. "This case. Something isn't sitting right."

"Like what?" Dean frowned. Running over the facts, he thought it all added up. It definitely wasn't a siren, and from what he knew about witches, none of their spells were powerful enough to render an entire town completely helpless to the whims of passion. The Pagan goddess (or God, not that Dean could remember any god of love that was male) fit, it worked.

But if Sam had misgivings, Dean had to trust them.

"Ok, Love, right," Sam pushed his salad away, and Dean was about to protest before deciding to bring it up after what Sam was about to tell him. "It's supposed to be this...this all encompassing _thing_ , right? Once in a million years, all that crap."

"Ok, you might be reading too much young adult literature, but carry on," Dean allowed, watching Sam's passionate eyes.

Sam backtracked for a second to give Dean a disparaging look, before flinging himself forward into his theory. "And the couples that are getting torn apart, I mean, not all of them can definitely be counted for as being in a loving relationship, but, Hell, Dean, there must've been _some_."

"And?" Dean asked, frowning, placing the rest of his lunch on his plate, curious to where Sam was taking this.

"And those goddesses, I mean, sure, there's tonnes of Lore on Aphrodite causing people to fall in love with animals or the wrong people, but it was usually because she was slighted in some way, or because it was just... _fate_ ," Sam explained, running through the Greek Myths. "Like, she forced Dido, the Queen of Carthage to fall in love with Aeneas, her son, so that he could make it to Italy and found Rome."

"Did he?" Dean asked.

Sam frowned. "Uh, what?"

"Did he found Rome?"

"Yeah, he did, but that's not the point," Sam frowned. "The point is—"

"That doesn't make any sense, though," Dean stated. "I mean, if Dido fell in love with him, wouldn't she force him to stay?"

Sam sighed heavily. "Look, ok, it's a lot more complicated than just that, but that's not what I'm trying to say." He breathed out slowly and ran a hand over his mouth. "I just...Aphrodite was _protector_ of love, causer of love. She only stepped in when insulted or when something big needed to happen." Sam let his hands fall to the table, searching for the right way to eloquently explain himself. "I just...I don't understand why she would, here, now."

"Maybe they slighted her, or whatever," Dean shrugged, not really feeling Sam's plan. Sure, maybe in ancient Greek times, at the height of her power, she could pick and choose like that. But here, now, on earth, she had almost nothing. She was a figurehead, the name of a ladies shaving line for God's sake. Maybe she'd finally cracked. Maybe she was just _angry_.

Did a monster need a reason for being a monster?

"Okay, let's think," Dean allowed, leaning back and picking up a long chip from his plate, taking a bite out of it. "What else could it be?"

Sam grimaced at Dean's disgusting display of his patataoed up tonsils, but didn't make any direct mention of it. "I was just..." He sighed. "Do you remember when there was that Cupid? That we thought was rogue, but it was actually just—"

"Famine hopping everyone up on Hunger Pills," Dean finished, swallowing his food before answering, not in the mood to taunt his brother any further, remembering that case, and not particularly finding anything funny about it.

_Because inside, you're already dead._

"Right," Sam said, clearing his throat, and Dean had to realise that it would have been hard for his brother to remember it as well. Famine had channelled all of Sam's addiction into a surge of desperate hunger. He'd drunk two demons dry and paid the consequences; the mind numbing detox afterwards.

Dean had never asked Sam to go into the particulars about that part of his life, but he knew that it was harrowing, and that the hallucinations rocked him to his core. And the way Sam had looked at him afterwards, when he'd come into the room and pulled him out, half with trembling fear and half with overwhelming joy...Dean didn't want to know. He just _didn't want to know_.

"But think," Sam slammed through, ignoring everything that went unsaid between them and charging on with their current case. "Cas thought that it made sense for a Cupid to have done what happened to those people. So maybe, we're finally dealing with one now."

"Huh," Dean considered, leaning back. He frowned, a thought occurring to him. "And, why'd you hold off on this thought, Sammy?"

Sam shrugged. "I wanted to be sure." He looked satisfied now, and forked another mouthful of his salad up and down to his stomach. This time, it looked more enthusiastic and less Kamikaze.

"And you're sure now?" Dean asked, pushing the rest of the uneaten chip back onto his plate, picking up a napkin to wipe his hands.

Sam shrugged, taking the time to swallow his food. "I changed my mind."

"You...You changed your mind," Dean repeated, leaning back and sighing loudly. "Of _course_ you did."

"What?" Sam challenged, taking time from gathering the leaves of salad onto his fork to glare at his brother. "I don't know if you've noticed, Dean, but when you set your heart on something, it's pretty hard to convince you otherwise." Dean raised an eyebrow, but Sam didn't relent. "And then when we didn't find anything else on the pagan goddess thing, if I'd already mentioned that it was an angel, there's no way that you would have considered my idea."

Dean scoffed. "Yes I _would_ ha—"

Sam cut him off by a pointed scowl, ruining the perfectly disgruntled image by shoving a mass of salad into his mouth.

Dean couldn't help it, seeing his brother like that, he burst out laughing. Sam didn't make any effort to hide his smile, letting it creep freely over his lip, marred by his chewing and swallowing.

"So, why'd you tell me _now_ , then?" Dean asked, genuinely curious. Wondering what his brother had been thinking about before Dean had interrupted him. That faraway look in his eyes was fresh in his mind, that lost twist of his lips. He wondered what his little brother had been thinking about.

But still, deep down, as little as he wanted to admit it, he didn't _want_ to know. He just _didn't want to know_.

Sam just tilted his head, quirking his lips downward to prove his little knowledge. "No idea." He met Dean's eyes, and Dean could tell he was as curious as his brother was. "I'm not sure."

_I'm not sure._

Dean didn't believe that that was the full answer, but he trusted his little brother. And he was glad that, whether consciously or not, his little brother had trusted him as well.

* * *

Back in the motel, they'd consciously finally made the decision not to call Cas to come find them. They knew that he was hunting down the Rebellion against Sarah, and although Sam was sceptical that it even existed, he knew that that was more important than one cupid terrorising a town. Dialling his number _had_ reached him, but the crackle and snap of the line made it impossible to fully contact him.

Hannah, however, had been an option that they too full advantage of. She was too busy in Heaven to be of any real help, but she _could_ suggest weaknesses of Cupids. She offered to send Angels to help them, but Dean turned her offer down. It was hard enough for Dean to be comfortable with the fact that Angels were running the freakin' universe, he didn't need a grey suited Nancy who had no idea what they were doing try to help them on a case.

No matter how helpful they'd be.

And honestly, after everything, Dean just wanted to handle a case by himself. With him and Sam, the two of them. One angel, what was the worst that could happen?

Dean avidly ignored the answer to that question, but he had to be reasonable as well. He knew that they were more than well equipped for the situation. Using Heaven's artillery would be wasteful, and dangerous. After all that killing, being forced to kill another angel might send them over the age. Perhaps that was how the rebellion had grown so large. Perhaps that was how it had started in the first place.

Sam didn't trust the angels. And neither did Dean. Not all of them. Not someone they didn't know.

"Well, the first thing to know about Cupids, I guess," Dean said, jacket slung over his motel bed, white dress shirt's collar unbuttoned as he strode around their hotel room. The phone call with Hannah had taken a long time, and Sam was convinced that the majority of it had been Dean telling Hannah that she was really pretty. Sam himself was relaxing back on his bed. His shoes were kicked off and left by the door and he'd traded his tight black pants for tracksuit pants, and his itchy jacket for an old, soft t-shirt that he'd had since Stanford. After the clock had hit 5, Sam decided that, whether the world needed him or not, he wasn't leaving the room until the next morning. At the earliest.

Dean, it seemed, was less optimistic. His suit was awry, but still very firmly _on_ as he went through all that they knew about the particular brand of Angel.

"Is that they love Love," Dean finished decisively.

"Four hours, and _that's_ what you come up with?" Sam asked, incredulous. He shifted on the bed, pushing his laptop ( _full_ , by the way, or lore and theories on Cupids and Cherubs and the lower order of angel) down his lap into a more comfortable position.

Dean gave Sam a pointed look. _"No_. Stop being irritating. No summoning spells yet, not that those would even _work_ anymore, not since they all lost their wings... _but_ , Hannah did say that they can be captured in Holy Fire, same as a higher order of Angel and can, you know, die from being stabbed by an Angel Blade."

"Well, thanks for that, Clueso," Sam sighed, clicking up to the document he had open with all he knew at the moment on the case. "Ok. So, from where we're sitting, we know a decent amount on Cupids, right? So there wasn't much lore I could even _half_ believe, but... from what I could get, well..." Sam grimaced. "It's not looking good."

"Great," Dean stated, sighing and sitting down on the bed across from Sam. "What else you got?"

"Well, Cupids literally control love," Sam said, then he paused and amended. " _Romantic_ love. Lore says that they shoot the heart of their victim with an arrow of desire, rendering them useless to their romantic wiles. Cupids can make _anyone_ fall in love, despite sexuality or..." Sam looked faintly nauseous. "Age. Or previous romantic partners, past history. It can create the severity of the romantic connection, how intense or whatever. And, in a way, could be considered the most powerful sort of angel in the universe."

Dean snorted at the last line. "Huh. Tell that to Lucifer, pipsqueak."

"Well, think about it, Dean," Sam offered, looking across to him. "I mean, name the amount of things people will fight for, and 'True Love' is pretty high up there. Humanity is obsessed with it, to the point of insanity. Cupids could render some _serious_ harm if they wanted to. Start wars, break down the leaders of Countries, turn the entire human race into a seething, wrenching Mass, but..." Sam looked around helplessly. "It's just _staying_ here. It's just showing off its wings and fluffing up its own ego, but I feel like..."

"What?" Dean asked, encouraging Sam on after he'd paused to try and enunciate what he had to say.

"I don't know," Sam finally sighed. "But it sounds like it wants to be noticed. By people who'd recognise the signs."

"You think it wants to be found," Dean said slowly, tasting how the words fell out of his mouth, testing the weight of each on his tongue. It made sense, the public displays, as horrid as they were, was just a fraction of the power that the cupid ultimately had at its disposal. It was like the pilot of a plane carrying an atom bomb relying on bullets to take down a city. It just didn't make any sense.

"I don't know what it wants, for sure," Sam reminded him. "But I _am_ sure that if it wanted, it could have made a bigger splash than this. And I can't see how tormenting just one town could be satisfying in the slightest."

Dean inclined his head. "Fair enough. What do you think we should do, Cap?"

"Track it down, quickly," Sam said, pulling his laptop back, rubbing the tiredness from his eye with the heel of his hand. "Whether it's what it wants or not. It can't be allowed to keep hurting these people."

Dean nodded his agreement, before snorting and walking. "Ugh. _Love_."

"That was beautiful, Dean," Sam told him. "I'm going to get that tattooed. Over my heart. Then I can look in the mirror every morning and remember the utter depths of your wisdom."

Dean scowled, pulling open their Dad's journal. "Oh, bite me."

* * *

"Why are we here again?" Dean asked, groaning and running a hand through his hair, adjusting his uncomfortable suit, trying not to make his grimace obvious.

"We don't have any other leads," Sam said, using his 'Be reasonable' voice. "And now we can look at the case with a different set of eyes."

Dean grumbled but didn't outwardly disagree, flashing a smile at a nurse as they walked passed the desk and into the psychiatry ward on their way to Bart Smith's new room. She responded in kind, offering a small smile before turning back to her work.

"I hate hospitals," Dean said, conversationally.

"I think most people hate hospitals," Sam told him, leading the way as they walked through the rooms.

"Yeah, well, I don't blame 'em," Dean grimaced, looking around and not bothering to hide his distaste. "And here, especially...all the crazies locked up in one place."

"Ok, well, first of all, that's irritatingly insensitive," Sam told him. "It's called a mental _illness_ because they're trying to get better. And Secondly, anybody who comes here is probably just minor. Non-specific Hospitals aren't equipped with the really big cases."

"Right," Dean said, slightly uncomfortable, but he wasn't sure why.

Both stopped in their tracks when a young woman came sprinting out of one of the Psych Wards doors. She span out into the hallway, nearly tripped and then started to sprint off. Not catching her balance came back to bite her, because as soon as she spotted Sam and Dean, just standing a few metres in front of her, she stumbled again, and would have fallen if Dean had not caught her under her arms.

"Hey, hey, whoa," Dean placated, looking to Sam to help him. Sam quickly complied, hooking an arm under her back and pulling her to her feet. "Chill, ok? What's wrong?"

"I can't, I just...I couldn't—" she stammered, looking up at Dean fearfully, pulling herself to her feet and casting a fearful eye behind her, from where she had been running from.

 _The Psych Ward,_ Dean thought, despite Sam's earlier lecture. _Great._

"What's your name?" Sam asked, using a soothing voice. Dean was immediately attentive, remembering their first aid training and watching the girl as she swallowed, gathering herself to give a shaky answer.

"Uh, it's...Natasha. Natasha Scott," she answered, voice still shaking, but strong. Easy instinctive questions calmed people down.

Dean didn't think anything by it, but Sam got a troubled look on his face, eyebrows clenched together as he thought back.

Dean decided to take the reins. "Ok, Natasha. What's wrong?"

She took a desperate breath, looking close to tears. "Oh my God, I'm so _tired_ of it. I'm not _strong_ enough—"

"Natasha, what happened?" Dean asked her seriously, wondering what could have caused the girl to be so hysterical. "Come on, we can help. We can help you."

"I don't—"

"Natasha Scott," Sam said suddenly, eyes bright with understanding. He gave Dean a look and Dean immediately looked at Natasha in a different light. "You... you started going out with Marie? Marie Singer?"

Her shock brought her out of herself for a moment, looking at them with wide eyes. "How did you know that?"

"Heard it," Sam shrugged. "On the grape vine."

"Yeah, I, she..." Natasha looked close to tears again. "I fell in love with her."

"All of a sudden, right?" Sam encouraged, voice low and sincere, looking at her with a kind smile. "Love at first sight?"

"More like love at fiftieth sight, but yeah," Natasha said meekly, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear and looking up at them miserably. "I'd never spoken to her, didn't even know I was _into_ girls... but I just... and she..." Natasha grimaced. "I _thought_ I was in love."

"What happened?" Dean asked, suddenly aware that they were in the middle of the hall in a hospital with a nearly crying girl, wearing a pair of important looking suits.

Natasha looked bitter, turning away. "You'll never believe me."

Dean gave her an assuring smile. "Try us."

Natasha looked at them curiously. "I don't—"

"Ok, how about this," Sam said, interrupting her before she could voice her doubts and make them real. "We go over there, and I tell you what I think is going on."

Natasha looked hesitant, but after a shaky "Ok", they walked over to the set of couches easily, only Natasha seeming out of place and nervous as she glanced around.

"So, Natasha," Sam said, and Dean knew he was completely bluffing. Even with their suspicions on the Cupid (which seemed to be more and more likely with every passing moment) they didn't have much on what Natasha specifically feeling. "You fell in love with Maria, without ever meeting her before. You went out, and then you fell in love with someone else. And there's no way you can explain it, and there's no way anyone will believe you."

Sam was facing her, and Dean was to her left, but Dean had to admit that the way she folded in on herself and the way she closed her eyes; she looked utterly alone.

She gave a bitter, shaky laugh. "If only, I guess."

"Why?" Sam asked her, frowning.

"I didn't _only_ fall in love with Maria and 'one other person'," Natasha informed them, tired and sour and just _done_. "I can't help it...please don't, just..." Natasha took a deep breath and looked like she was about to start crying. " _Please_."

It seemed to trigger in Sam before Dean, and the younger brother paled, and looked at the girl with a new sort of tenderness and pity. "How many?" he asked softly, eyes searching out hers, open and understanding.

Natasha took in shaky breath. "I don't... it's driving me _insane_ —"

"Natasha," was all Sam had to say, to get her to look at him, and really _see_ that he would understand.

Natasha nodded and swallowed. "I...too many." She looked at him pleadingly. "I don't _know_."

"Don't know what?" Dean asked, deciding that it was a good time for him to come in, in all his misunderstanding.

"I just keep... _falling in love_ ," Natasha said, barely above a whisper. And though it was such a beautiful notion, romantic love, the way she said it... like it was the ugliest thing in the world. "That's why I was running. I went to my Shrink to see if he could help and I..." she took a shuddering breath. "I fell in _love_ with him!"

"Ok, Natasha, can you excuse us for a minute?" Sam asked her softly, sending her a reassuring smile. She seemed to take to Sam easily, appealing to his softer nature a lot easier than Dean's gruffer, to the point attitude.

Dean sent her a small smile and walked off after Sam, turning around the corner, leaning against the wall.

"Ok," Sam said, in a low voice. They were both thinking it, and he didn't need to go over it, but Dean knew he would anyway. "She's infected by cupid."

" _Really_ infected," Dean agreed, turning back to look at her. She had her eyes closed and her lips pressed tightly against each other. She was in _pain_ , and it was terrifying. Dean could remember Sam's lecture about the overwhelming power of love, or whatever, last night, and he had to admit, seeing it first hand was terrifying. If Natasha had been a little more important or a little less strong-willed... Dean didn't want to know the lengths she'd have gone.

How insane she must feel.

"So maybe she's our best lead?" Sam suggested, looking at her, frowning. "Maybe Cupid's targeting her on purpose."

"Right," Dean agreed, eyes wide with understanding. He followed Sam's cue and the two of them walked over to where Natasha was sitting. Her eyes fluttered open as the two of them sat in their usual seats.

"What's happening to me?" Natasha asked them meekly, tears welling up in her eyes. "What's _wrong_ with me?"

"Someone is doing this to you," Sam told her slowly, but the pace didn't help. Natasha still winced, and her expression went quickly from slightly hopeful to angrily disbelieving.

 "Right," she snapped. She made as if to leave. "Yeah, thanks."

"Natasha, please," Sam said, and the wretchedness of the situation hit her, and she stopped trying to leave. She sat very still, and put her hands on her knees. "Can you think of anyone who you... treated badly? Or who seem to suddenly dislike you?"

"I, no... I," Natasha tried, before closing her mouth and choosing to just shake her head and shrug.

"Ok, good," Sam said, trying to smile, but Dean could tell he was miffed that their lead had just lost itself.

"But in town, can you think of anyone who's changed dramatically in the past few weeks?" Dean pressed, hoping to at least get a few people to check out.

"Everyone's been changing," Natasha answered meekly, fingers twitching against each other on her knees, head bowed as she studied them. "I mean... sorta. I guess."

"Ok, but not _now_ now, now as in within a year, year and a half," Sam said, looking at Natasha hopefully. "Might have been very religiously devout, but then distanced themselves from society, or maybe they started going on a lot of trips at short notice. Maybe they stopped talking to their friends or—"

"What is this, the Exorcist?" Natasha demanded, looking from brother to brother. "No one in this town is _possessed_! You're _insane_!"

Dean gave a humourless smile. "I wish we were."

"Just hear us out, ok?" Sam asked her, and she calmed down enough to look ready to help them out. She closed her eyes, hard, and then took a deep breath.

"Ok," she flashed her eyes open again, and when they took them in, they were hard, unyielding, focused. Dean was impressed. Only a few moments ago, she'd been hysterical about her perchance for love and her insanity. She was dealing with everything surprisingly well, and Dean had to say that in her position, not many people would have reacted so adaptively. "I know it's not much... but I do have _something_..." She grimaced. "God, if anyone heard me say this, they'd think I was insane."

"Good thing we're not just anyone," Dean assured her.

Sam looked close to rolling his eyes, but he didn't. Choosing to be mature. For the first time in his life. Dean hid a smile. If there was anything the kid hated, it was Special Snowflake-ism. Except, of course, when he himself initiated it.

"Bart Smith," she said simply, looking at them both openly. "One day he was a bible preacher, you know, 'God created us all equal', and that crap..." she looked pensive, continuing despite the brother's sudden alertness. "I mean, he was kinda irritating, and he glared at me because I always took the shift at the cafe so I would get out of goin' to church, but... yeah. Now he's all Zen and constantly shuns pretty much everyone in the town. He was a good—"

"Natasha, Bart Smith," Sam summarised quickly, looking at Dean, who nodded, jumping to his feet.

"What—"

"Stay here," Sam ordered her quickly, and she promptly sunk back down into the couch, eyes wide as she looked up at the men who were standing, ready in front of her.

"He's probably gone," Dean said quickly.

"Maybe not," Sam suggested, looking down at Natasha. "He doesn't know that we suspect him, right? And he'll know who we are—"

" _Who_ are you?" Natasha asked, looking at them both with shrewd eyes. She looked regretful, like the past minutes of her relating her story and believing them was the worst decision she could have made.

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance. They were a lot of things, weren't they? FBI agents and serial killers, protectors and harmers, brothers and enemies. Monsters and Heroes.

"Hunters," Sam said simply, looking at her, and Dean was relieved that Sam hadn't lied. Natasha didn't need to be lied to any further than she already was. "We're here to save you."

And with that, before Natasha could demand anything else from them, they were off, down the hall, Sam cursing that they hadn't grabbed the vial of Holy Oil from the trunk of the impala.

He needn't have worried.

The hospital room was empty.

* * *

After an hour of suppressed silence, where they'd driven to his empty house and then to the house where his girlfriend had lived and finally to where they were fiddling around in some leftover warehouse, Dean finally lashed out, banging his hands hard on the wheel of the impala. He let out a scream of frustration and Sam just let it ride out, feeling the itchy clang of anger root itself in as Dean's yells filled the interior of the car.

"We were _so close_!" Dean said, gritted teeth, eyes straight ahead, neck tight as they waited for the light to turn green.

Sam knew better than to murmur agreement, letting his eyes wander blearily from sidewalk to the car in front, letting his mind scatter as he tried to think of the next approach. There was no way to summon it, not any more. Without wings, the angels were useless at getting from place to place. It can't of gotten far, but even in that short amount of time, there were plenty of places for it to go.

They were interrupted by the shrill keen of Sam's work phone. Sam sighed, looking at the caller ID and, seeing that it was an unknown caller, flipped it open to answer.

"Hello?"

" _Hi, uh, is this the FBI agent I was talking to before?_ " Natasha asked from the other end of the line.

"Natasha?" Sam asked, startling Dean out of his funk and sitting up straight.

" _Yeah, you kind of seemed like you were interested in Bart Smith—_ "

"Wait, how'd you get this number?" Sam asked, looking at Dean who'd been forced to look back at the road as the line of cars moved through possibly the only set of lights in the whole town.

Natasha paused, incredulous. " _I'm not an idiot. I went to see Tracy._ "

"Tracy? What...Oh." Sam winced. "Tracy Dodds."

" _Small town, everyone knows each other_ ," Natasha reminded him.

"Right," Sam agreed, now that his shock was out of the way, he turned to what she had said before. "You said something about Bart Smith—"

"She said something about the friggin angel and you ask her how she got your _number_?" Dean demanded loudly.

Sam thought he heard Natasha give a shocked laugh, but it was over before he could fully concentrate. " _Uh, so, yeah. I'm looking at him right now_."

"Holy crap," Sam breathed, paling, looking out the window as if he might catch her in the act. "What do you mean?"

" _He's here, at the cafe_ ," Natasha said, her voice small. " _I had to serve him like it was normal and everything_."

"Thank you, thank you so much, Natasha, thank—"

Sam slammed the phone off, cutting through his own praise, turning to Dean. "We need to go to Natasha's cafe."

Dean, who had been torn between road rules and regulations and integrating himself into the conversation, got his brother's meaning immediately. He gunned off, tearing around the traffic. It wasn't late, still midday and an appropriate lunch time by the time that they'd pulled up.

"So, he doesn't know?" Dean guessed, watching through the window as the Cupid laughed at something someone said. Natasha was visible as well, wearing a black shirt and pants, with the apron for the cafe across her chest in bright red.

"Nope," Sam said lightly, watching, head woozy as the cupid looked around, utterly unknowing that they were gunning for him.

"All this..."

"Yeah."

They sat for a moment more. He still had that red mark around his neck, that grace across his cheek. He held a hand to his rib cage as he let out a belly laugh, gently chastising his companion as he rubbed it.

"Ok," Dean said, and they both heaved themselves out of the car.

* * *

"I just don't get how any 'new evidence' could have arisen," the Cupid flustered, looking from brother to brother as he was led out to the impala.

 _Neither_ , Dean admitted, because it had been a thing of the moment. They'd congratulated him on his fast recovery and then invited him to come with them, with Sam not so subtly reminding him (and everyone else on the premises) that they were armed. "That's perfectly alright, Mr. Smith. We just need to gauge your first reaction."

He quietly got into the back seat, and even from where they were sitting, Dean could sense his worry. Dean gave him a placating smile in the rear vision mirror, it dropping to menacing when the angel looked away.

The place they were going was on the outskirts of town. Untouched other than horror movie wannabes, the old factory had made mannequins for the towns once thriving dress store collection. It ran aground a few years before the boutiques, and from there nothing had touched it, nothing had bought it. No one had even dared build on the land around it, and the nonexistent haunting led to most of the towns ghost stories.

There wasn't actually a ghost there. No one had even ever _died_ there. (They'd checked.)

The impala pulled outside it, and they heard Bart cough in the back seat. "Uh, guys?"

"Sorry, Mr. Smith," Dean smiled. They all climbed out of the car and walked together up to the closed off doors. It was easy enough to open it up, Sam kicking at the door till it swung open, Dean swinging the torch around, picking up the corridor.

"I don't..." Bart stood back, pale beneath his injuries, adams apple bobbing as he took in where they'd taken him. "I'm not going in there."

Sam gave a serious frown. "Do we need to get a warrant, Mr. Smith?"

He looked torn. On one half, his instincts were probably telling him to flee, and on the other, he was threatening angering two government officials. And he needed to keep up his charade.

"No," he took another shuddering breath. "No, it's...it's ok. Let's do this. Alright."

"Awesome," Dean stated, deadpan, leading the way into the warehouse.

"What am I looking at?" Bart asked, his voice ringing tinny around the area, looking at the dilapidated construction lines and the boxes of untouched mannequins. When they didn't answer, he tried again, calling out louder. "Uh, Agents?"

They both turned simultaneously, looking at him, hard. When Dean brought out the lighter he'd been fiddling with in his pocket, Bart winced.

"I don't—"

His breath cut short as Dean dropped it. He looked around desperately, trying to see if the ground was coated in petrol or if there were lines of oil leading to hidden explosives.

He winced, bent down and closed his eyes, nearly giving out a whimper.

"Open your eyes," Dean said, looking at Bart, hard.

"Who _are_ you people?" Bart demanded, looking at the ring of fire that surrounded him. There was something vaguely satanic in the way it flickered, in the way if caught the shadows of the men's faces. Bart looked hurriedly away from the half formed faces of the female mannequins. In the dark, the shadows cracked. In the dark, it looked like they were blinking.

"We're not FBI agents," Sam said smoothly, watching the man with the same amount of vigour as Dean was. He was staring at them both with shock and desperation.

"Yeah," Bart rasped. "I got that."

"So, why are you doing it?" Dean asked him, letting a silver blade fall from his sleeve and into his hand. He fiddled with it idly, letting his eyes lazily come up to scope out the man's terrified expression. He expressed all forms of patience on the outside, but there was a barely concealed anger, a rippling frustration. Sam saw it as well as Bart did. He was just used to it.

"Doing what?" Bart asked, his voice raspy, barely above a whisper. "Doing _what_?"

"Killing these people," Sam answered curtly.

"Your little Love Bug," Dean filled in, done with Bart's act. He glared openly, lip twitching in disgust as he took him in. "It's _killing_ people."

"I don't... _please_ , I just—"

"Natasha Scott said that you were acting strange for about a year," Sam said, shrugging, obviously a lot more nonchalant than his brother. His demeanour was strictly business, while Dean's was rippling with adversary. "We just wanna know why."

"You got a weird way of asking someone why they picked up yoga," Bart said slowly, looking from brother to brother. "I... my girlfriend got me a membership." He grimaced, unsure of how to proceed. "I'll... _cancel_ it, if you want?"

Dean looked at him sharply. "Castiel."

"I'm sorry," He asked desperately. "Am I supposed to know what that is?"

"Hey, fellas," a new voice announced itself at the back of the room. Sam looked to Dean and nodded, once, and then twice, and Dean turned in synch with his little brother to greet it.

"Sheriff," Sam smiled, hand digging into his pocket. He felt his fingers secure around their failsafe, there second trap. "Good of you to join us."

The Lady Sheriff Dodds made her way into the light of the holy fire. She smiled at them, but it was a far cry from anything humane, anything _real_. It was desperate and dark and shallow, and there was a greedy wonder to the lilt of her lips scratched like claws into her cheeks.

She took another step, and without wasting any more time, Sam let his lighter fall to the ground, where the flame caught the oil and raced up to form a circle around the sheriff.

She halted, eyes wide with surprise. She spluttered, looking around. Utterly captured.

"I gotta say," Dean remarked, ignoring Bart behind him and focusing on her. "I've met a few Cupids before, and none of them were nearly as cuddly as you."

Sam flashed a smile.

Dodds barked a laugh, huffing in bitterness at the thought of her siblings. "Oh yes, those love driven fanatics. So suppressed and emotionally over connected. They had no idea what they could do with the power they held in their hands." She looked over at the brothers maliciously. "What we could force people to do."

"People are dying," Sam reminded her harshly, voice low, guttural, unforgiving.

"That was the plan, Velma," The cupid smiled. "Love drives people to do crazy things. Jump back into the Titanic, wage a war for ten years, launch a thousand Grecian Ships..." she trailed off, satisfied, smiling. Any shock left over from being captured was easily masked.

"You're a _what_?" Bart demanded, and no one turned to acknowledge him.

"Right," Dean said. He hefted the angel blade. "I've had enough, so, Sammy, if you'll—"

"Wait," Sam said, hand reaching out to stop his brother. Dean complied, but raised his eyebrow, looking like Sam'd have to have a _really_ good reason to stop him from putting the Cupid out of her misery. He didn't look to see how his brother had taken his hesitation, however, eyes fixed seriously on the smirking woman. "Why?"

"What do you mean?" She asked, snappily, irritated. "I answer that, Sasquatch. I'm over this love—"

"Yeah, and I don't believe you," Sam said. His face was curious, caught. "I want to know the truth. You fell over a year ago, with all your brothers and sisters. Why wait till _now_ to ruin this town?"

She gave sharp laugh. "Do I look like I _need_ a reason?"

"I think I know," Sam told her evenly. "And I think I know why you focused on Natasha as well. Everything was planned out for us, and us specifically. You knew we were coming. But you didn't want to get caught."

"Oh, please, educated me."

"Natasha was your friend," Sam told her easily. Then he paused, sizing the angel up. "Well, the friend of your vessel. And Angels _can_ integrate into society, despite what people think. It just takes a certain... _skill set._ So you continued your friendship with Natasha, and when she told you about her thoughts on how Bart had changed, you used it to your advantage."

"This is sounding pretty on par with what I was saying," Dodds informed him, crossing her arms in a display of boredom.

"Right," Sam agreed. "But you and Natasha were _friends_ , and he's been off since around about the Fall. You needed a scapegoat." He looked at her level. "I'm guessing you heard about the Regime Change upstairs?"

"Sure," she shrugged. She seemed to brush off everything else he said. "Sariel. A big up and comer. The Lilith to Heaven, and all that."

Sam was put out, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. Scratch that, he was _angry_. Lilith had been _evil_ , she'd killed Dean and started the apocalypse. How _dare_ she? After all Sarah had done? After all she'd done for the brothers, as well?

And then it clicked. For both of them. Dean's blade went limp in his hand, Sam's mouth cinched into a hard line.

"The rebellion," Dean spat.

The flicker of surprise across her face was enough.

She seemed to notice that she'd given them all the indication they needed as well. Her mouth snarled into a fierce attack, the grimace stealing into her eyes. All the perfect satisfaction that she had exuded before has become lost, amid the tensing muscles in her neck and the way her eyes burnt bright blue.

"The rebellion? Oh yes, you have _no idea_ what you're dealing with if you can speak about it so freely," she said, and although Dean knew that she had to be bluffing, a cold shiver still stole down his back at the thought. Because here they were. Here they were, _again_. "We'll get Sariel, and Castiel, and all his hopeless followers. We'll get _you_ , Winchesters. For what you did to us. For your corruption of Heaven."

"Alright, time to go," Dean said simply, holding his blade firmly in his hand and advancing on her. She backed up to the end of the circle, nervous, but still a smirk grew.

Sam wanted to scream, to punch, to stab her himself. But he didn't, he just stood there, watching, eyes devoid of sympathy.

When she got to the edge of the circle, her smirk only grew. She had one last card up her sleeve, one last ace. "How will you be able to kill me, when you're too busy being in love with each other?"

Dean stopped, staring at her, incredulous. "Excuse me?"

Sam frowned, walking forward, crossing his arms over and looking at the angel with confusion. "I think she was talking about incest, Dean."

Dean scrunched up his face, and grimaced. "Ugh. We were having such a good talk. Why'd you have to go ruin it?"

The cupid, for all her bravado, looked stunned. Whatever magic she'd been planning to whip out had dampened under their odd response. "I don't...I'm _sorry_?"

"Well you _might_ as _well_ ," Sam threw his arms into the air in frustration. " _Everyone_ thinks we're Gay anyway!"

"It's a curse," Dean agreed. "We can never get a motel room without having to specify it. Do you want to know how many times I've had to say 'two singles'? _Do you_?"

Dodds winced. "Uh, no?"

"You know Lisa thought that I'd brought my new boyfriend to the neighbourhood when we showed up?" Dean turned to Sam conversationally. "That is an actual thing someone said to me."

"Wait, seriously?" Sam demanded. He sighed and shook his head. "Dude...I mean, seriously. _Dude_."

Dean's eyes were wide. "I _know_."

"I don't—"

"Hey, remember," Sam interrupted Dodds easily. " _Antiquers?_ "

Dean shook his head, smiling despite it. "Classic."

"You can't distract me," Dodds hissed, her eyes blazing as she took the two of them in. "I will _still_ curse you, I will _still_ escape!"

Dean and Sam shared a long-suffering look. Dean was the first to turn back, sighing, Angel blade light and familiar in his hand.

He smiled to himself, nostalgic almost, wry. "Well, it was worth a shot."

He turned quickly, flinging his arm out. The blade flipped through the air, slamming through the angels ribs, turning her eyes bright white, forcing her onto her back, screaming light pouring out from her eyes and mouth as she died.

A few moments later, the Winchesters could uncover their eyes. And a few moments after that, they managed to get Bart back outside, with a half-hearted promise to explain everything to the too-quiet shell of a man. A few minutes more and the oil had burnt down enough that they could approach the body. A few more, and all that remained of the angel was the blackened wings burnt into the ground.

Sam followed Dean out of the warehouse, leaving no fingerprint, no hair or footstep. Nothing. Like they were two whirlwinds, two spectres, who rolled into town. They left no trace, and no one would have proof that they were ever there.

They might be remembered, in kind, when the people of the town revisited their odd spell, where people were not acting like themselves. But not in full. Any recollection of their face would be blurred. And sound of their voice would be generalised, until it wasn't their voice at all.

So Sam and Dean left the town in the same way they arrived in it. In a car with a trunk large enough to hide a body, with music nearly vintage with age, side by side, off to collect a few more nightmares.

* * *

Castiel had followed Dodds's energy trail to a T. He'd started at the town Sam and Dean had directed him to when he'd finally gotten down from the mountain and managed to find somewhere to get decent cell reception. He'd made his way through Heaven to the other side of the world, missing his wings but too determined and too _excited_ to fully reflect on what it meant for him now that he didn't have what really made him an angel.

The House was once a Sorority, but it had been sold after the continuous assaults from the neighbours and the police's clampdown on the noise pollution of that particular area of town.

It had had been sold and bought by a large family in 2012, but no one had seen them use it since. It was like they'd bought the house to ensure that no one else could touch it.

But it was being used, and whether one of the family members had been possessed, or if it was all of them, Cas wasn't sure.

But he made his way to the house nevertheless. Sariel told him to harm as the last possible resort, and he agreed with her, relieved that it wasn't he who had to bring it up. He didn't _want_ to kill anymore angels; no matter what they'd done, no matter what was left.

They were still his brothers and sisters. They still had the right to redemption.

The house was still and serene under the moon that shone brilliant despite the clouds.

Cas looked up at it, eyes wide, searching.

He walked up to the front door, and pressed his hand up against the wood.


	12. The Princess Bride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chasing down the Rebellion, Cas makes a disturbing find that hails the return of a familiar face.

Will cackled as he and Andy slunk out from their car and into the street. Friday night, and they were already drunk. The 16 year olds had been relying on vodka and beer to get them dumb enough to do what they had set out to accomplish, and they were very nearly there.

Andy had talked about the schematics of being drunk enough to be able to walk up to the creepy ass house and then also being sober enough to remember it in enough detail to gain the credit and glory. And babes, although, even drunk, Will wasn't entirely certain that _any_ girl would be any more interested in him.

Andy crouched behind him, peering out through the night. The clouds had covered the moon, so they were reliant on the sketchy orange hindrances of lights that squared down at them from the tops of poles, and the odd flash of a window across the street. Yellow and homely, Will was almost pulled into suggesting they just go home and _tell_ everyone they did it, when Andy let out an excited breath.

"I can't believe we're doing this," his words slurred slightly, and he blinked a little more than usual, but he seemed alert, and steady, chest contracting as he breathed out, the fabric of his jacket jostling along Will's arm.

"I _know_ ," Will smiled, all fear from before gone, replaced by the anticipation, that house, _the legend..._ the babes.

The Cortese's had bought the house in 2012 and never lived in it. _Why_? What had happened there? Who had died? Will thought maybe the daughter of an oppressive Pastor, who wouldn't ever let her go out and have fun, so the day before she left for college he came at her with an axe, and then, realising what he'd done, buried the body beneath the stairs.

That was just a rough estimate though. He wasn't sure how the Cortese's fit in, but he knew they did. The must. Somehow.

Not that he really _believed_ the story about the preachers daughter that he _made up himself_ in the depths of one night, where he'd been entertaining himself in those frustrating moments between wakefulness and sleep. Nah. Not even a little.

"Ready?" Andy asked him, breath hissed as his eyes glowed bright, looking around the corner, smile stretched tight across his face.

Will took a deep breath and nodded, grinning.

They scampered across the road and up through the house. Will led the way, and he could feel the adrenalin and alcohol punching into his ribcage alongside his heart, thumping off and on with the beat of his feet hitting the ground.

They drew up to the stairs, and that was where they stopped.

Will swallowed. "Uh, do... do you...?"

"No, dude, I'm good," Andy admonished, gesturing and backing up, looking serious and that fake generosity that even an infant could see through.

Will didn't have the energy to call his friend up on it, and the heat wrenching through his veins was making him brave. So he squared his shoulders, reminded himself that he still had a way to go in convincing anyone (especially his Dad) that he was manly enough to play Football at college, and walked up the stairs with purpose, refusing to slow down. Refusing to turn around.

He raised his hand to knock, wondering what would happen, excited, more than nervous, for the ghost or the wail of some poor dead girl to come floating out towards him.

He didn't expect the door to open, the handle smashed, the wood ruined.

Any more sober, and Will might have noticed that there was something wrong. Something _really_ wrong. But he wasn't. He was drunk on all that he and Andy had stolen from his older brothers stash and on the anticipation for the greatness that this victory would grant them. For the massive boon the universe was throwing their way.

He pushed the door open, ignoring Andy's sudden hissing demands that they turn around and head home, that they'd come far _enough_ , and that no one would know that they hadn't gone further, and could he _please, please_ just come back, because Andy felt like something bad was about to happen and the whole talk of Ghosts—

"Holy _shit_ ," Will muttered, pressure in his head suddenly dropping, making way for the cool pools of dread to sneak through his system. He felt like vomiting, he felt like this was the worst thing he'd seen in his entire life. Possibly the worst thing _anyone_ could see. "Dude...Dude that's..."

"Oh my _God_ ," Andy said, voice barely loud enough for Will to hear, swallowing hard afterwards.

Will had been hoping for skeletons in the closet, for a story to take back to his friends. But he hadn't counted on the flesh still being attached to the bones. He hadn't counted on burnt out eyes and scorched out wing marks and _blood and blood and—_

Andy stepped back and, leaning over into the bushes, heaved out the contents of his stomach. Will would have joined him, were he not so _desperately_ numb. Not so shudderingly cold.

"We gotta—"

"We gotta tell someone," Will said, catching Andy off, eyes wide as he took in one of the bodies. He noticed there were three, in an impersonal, disconnected part of his brain.  Three bodies. Three dead humans. Three stopped hearts, three cooling streams of blood.

Will felt like joining Andy, but he held it down. He didn't think that it would help, not on top of all this. He couldn't _deal_ with this, he couldn't—he was just a kid and—three dead bodies—someone _had_ to be told—who were they?—the world would never be the sa—

" _No_ , oh God, no, we can't," Andy was insistent. He'd gone pale, like all the blood had pooled away from his cheeks. "We've been _drinking_ dude. This is our _whole_ future gone... our whole lives ruined. We'll just... _leave_ it."

Will hated it, but his friend had a point. Someone else would find the bodies. Someone else would know how to deal with it better than two sixteen year old boys. Will justified it for himself, nodded, and turned to his friend. He grabbed Andy by the scruff of his shirt and pushed him ahead of him, breaking into a run as soon as he hit the top of the stairs.

The door slammed shut as the force from him pulling it back delivered, and the sound reverberated throughout the neighbourhood. Will and Andy's feet scuffed as they ran back to their house, that deadly, horrifying image of the dead woman and the two others lying decrepit on the ground haunted them.

And half an hour later, the angel Castiel made his way down the street they'd _sprinted_ from. Half an hour later, the police still hadn't been called, and two drunk teenagers were trying their hardest to forget.

Castiel raised his hand to the door, and found that it was broken. He pressed on it, and it moved in, wood gliding open to the scene of the murder.

* * *

When Cas called them and told them that all the angels credited with being part of the rebellion had been found dead in the home Cas had followed them to, Dean had to try very hard to convert his face from relief to a sort of disconnected indifference. So he didn't really care if angels had died, not to the extent of Cas. He was happy that the threat had been eliminated, and he was happy that peace looked almost certain now.

Sam, however, had been a little more troubled.

"All I'm saying," he said over breakfast the morning after they'd gotten Cas's call, too tired from driving back to make a move at that instant. "Is that _something_ killed them, and that something is probably not on our side."

Dean shrugged, a little more hopeful on the topic of the mysterious assassins identity than his brother. "What's that saying? The enemy of my enemy is my friend?"

"The enemy of your enemy could _still_ be your enemy," Sam muttered, surly, into his cereal. "That's _such_ a stupid phrase."

"Thanks, Stanford," Dean said, exasperated. "But if someone's killing off the angels of the rebellion, they're on our side, right?"

"Not necessarily," Sam said, jaw tight, spoon falling muffled into his bowl amongst the uneaten food. Food that wouldn't be further touched, no matter how little Sam had eaten recently. No matter how many obvious hints Dean dropped that his brother _had to eat more_. "I mean... Sariel didn't want the Rebel angels dead. She agreed with Cas, didn't she? That more dead angels just led to... _more_ dead angels?"

"I guess," Dean nodded, pushing his spoon into his food and readying another mouthful. "Doesn't mean that they aren't on our side. Might just disagree with that part of Sariel's Zen."

"No, it doesn't make any sense," Sam dismissed easily, too preoccupied with thought to see Dean's massive eye roll. Dean took a bite of his nearly too soggy breakfast and sighed deeply. "Sariel will be distrusted for this, the angels might even rise again because they think she broke her promise."

"Wait, _again_?" Dean demanded, tired out, spoon sagging in his fingers as he imagined _another_ bloody civil war among the glorified Christmas ornaments.

Sam shared the sentiment, but not the humour. "I don't think so, but maybe if anything _were_ to start, this would just add fuel to the fire. I mean... _think_ about it. This doesn't help Sariel's cause. The Rebellion was never going to be any sort of real threat."

"So, we're still stuck on that same question, right?" Dean agreed, thinking through his brothers logic and sensing a heavy dread in the pit of his stomach. " _Who_ killed those angels?"

"And if not for Sariel," Sam said, worriedly, cinching his eyebrows and staring glassily into the distance. "Then _why_?"

* * *

In their business, dead bodies were an unhappy necessity. Sam had pretty much immunised himself to the sight of gruesome murders, and had a stomach of steel, but even he was disparaged by the sight of the blood on the door, the footprint fleshed in red on the floor and the wide eyed stares of the dead angels.

"All of them," Castiel confirmed. He looked bitter, looked stunned, ashamed, relieved. Guilty. Everything about the angel was contradicting and clashing. Sam wasn't sure whether it was because he hadn't saved them or that he was happy they were gone that the grief and guilt was springing from, but he was certain that no matter how Cas felt, nothing that had happened here was his fault.

"How can you be sure?" Dean asked, frowning, looking for a broken moment at the face of one of the angels, her eyes wide with terror, her dead body and spreadeagled seared wings the last captured moment of her life. Her eyes had burnt out and her hand was loose over her chest, like she had raised a hand to defend herself. And then gotten stabbed in the chest for her troubles.

"Well, can't be entirely sure," Cas said, grimacing. "But..."

He led them off to another room, this one with obvious signs that bodies had been removed. Dried brown streaks of blood led to the crumpled forms of other angelic bodies, and the ghosts of wings were imprinted randomly across the walls. It was a nice room; nice and pleasant seemed to be the theme of the decor. This one was some sort of dining room, with a broken table and sheet covered chairs gathered to the sides of the room.

But neither brother was looking at the chairs, or worrying about the blood stains in the white of the sheets. Both of their attention was aptly held by the words written in blood. Streaked with human fingers, with a human intelligence, with a humans drive for revenge.

" _I WILL HAVE THIS ANGELIC APOCALYPSE_."

"So, that's why you're thinking that only one person did it?" Sam asked, frowning at the words and then at the carnage. "The whole 'I will have' thing?" Cas had expressed his thoughts over the phone, but before the note on the wall, Sam didn't see how one person could have done it. No way. Not in a million years. Not against angels. He still didn't thinking about the mentality of cults and monsters and stuff like that.

Cas looked almost excited to be sharing his acquired knowledge. "Yes, and also that the murderer came in through the front door, and there's no other sign of forced entry."

"And?" Dean asked, curious with Sam as to where Cas had deduced the single handed massacre.

"And doesn't that make very little sense?" Cas pressed, looking from brother to brother insistently. He tried for a different angle. "If you knew a house of monsters existed, and you had days to plan, there's no way you'd both come in through the front door. Even if there wasn't a back door, a window would still be better than nothing."

"Angels are pretty brutal," Sam pointed out. "The group might have wanted to stick together to have a better chance of being defended."

Cas acknowledged Sam's point with a bird-like dip of his head. "Right, but then there's the pattern of the killings, the time of death, and then..." Cas grimaced, turning their attention back to the wall. "That. Cleary personal. Personal pronouns, even."

"How could they know?" Dean asked, about the blood painted sign, about the knowledge they seemed to carry about the way things were working in Heaven. still suspicious that the killer could have had that much intelligence.

"Well, why would they write it if they didn't?" Sam snapped back, irritated.

Dean ignored his brother, for the most part, walking over and tapping the wall as close to the final T as he could without touching it. He did give Sam some indication, with a barely concealed eye roll.

"How do we know it wasn't just an angel that was killed in the crossfire?" Sam suggested, tactfully bringing the conversation back around. "Maybe everyone just killed each other?"

"There'd be a survivor," Cas dismissed.

Sam exchanged a curious look with Dean. "But—"

"They'd stay," Cas cut him off, weary voice answering before Sam could voice it. Speak it and make it real. "The members of the rebellion. They wouldn't flee. They might not have been loyal to Heaven, but they would have been loyal to each other."

There was a respectful silence as all three mulled over Cas's words.

"We need to find them," Dean said, voice low. When he turned back to them, he finally looked troubled. After all that bravado and talk that morning about Allies and the mysterious assassin coming to their aid, he finally seemed to sense the very real gravity of the situation. He looked at Sam evenly, eyes bare and worried.

Sam flinched, nearly, and looked away, distracting himself with the fiery imprint of wings on the wall.

Dean was worried. _Really_ worried.

"Who could have the... _power_ to do this?" Sam asked finally, breaking the silence, looking first to Cas, who was nearly as lost in the Hunting world as he was in the non-supernatural order of things; and so all he received was a shrug. Dean, however, looked more thoughtful.

"Still _alive_?" His brother gave a snide, awful bite of laughter. He chased it down though, frowning as he thought through all their options. "Maybe..." He grimaced. "Well, if Krissy and her bodyguards had been training up non-stop since we saw them, I think they'd be our best shot."

"Carlos?" Sam considered, but he knew it was a long shot. Carlos worked mostly along the South of the States and then into Mexico, where he said the monsters only grew meaner. He also wasn't that bothered over angels, not to this extent. Not writing-on-the-wall-in-the-blood-of-my-enemies scope anyway.

Dean shared his sentiment, shaking his head.

"You could," Cas said, absently. He seemed to be working through his shock, and the curious, intelligent angel was slowly resurfacing. He puckered slightly in irritation as he saw them frown at him, not understanding. "Kill the angels. _You_ could."

"Oh," Dean blinked, understanding. He nodded, sighing and turning back to the blood decorated wall. "Sure."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, though he knew, deep down, that they couldn't. Not like this. Maybe if one of them had died and the angels had killed them. Maybe if one of them had been wronged by the angels and the other was seeking revenge.

Sam considered the vengeful writing on the wall, the way the bodies were held, the mercy disregarded and the blood drying along the floor. The human, whoever they were, were just that. _Human_. And Sam knew himself the versions of themselves people would create, how deep people could go when they were angry.

And how that desperate, clear anger was only informed and intensified when this world and all its secrets were taken into account. In this world, revenge could be demanded and it could be _taken_.

Sam knew what anger looked like. And this, this _exactly_ , was it.

"If it wasn't for the fact that it was already obvious that the person had killed angels before," Cas started finally, breaking the silence. "This wouldn't prove much. But, I remember, when I was hunting around after I lost my Grace, that I found a place that no group would claim. Not Malachi or Bartholomew. I assumed that a tiny, insignificant band of angels had done it, but outright violence had never been anyone but the other's forte." Cas paused slightly, letting the story sink in. "The only marking," he admitted. "Was writing on the wall."

"What was it?" Sam asked, embarrassed when he recognised how low his voice was. He cleared his throat, but not before Dean threw him a very older-brother-esque look.

Cas wasn't amused, though. He seemed to be fully concentrated on the message, on the angels deaths. Sam thought about dead bodies, and about him and Dean and their lack of proper aversion, and any humour because of how he'd embarrassed himself quickly dissipated.

He took an uneven breath. "It said, _I'm going to kill them all_."

Dean and Sam froze. Of course, Cas would have assumed that they had meant the group of angels that had been slaughtered, whatever faction is was that had been killed. But there was something else there now, something hovering and simmering and _terrifying_.

_I'm going to kill them all. I'm going to kill all the angels._

Sam thought about the theory he had on the revenge driven human, pushed to extremes, and he wondered how many people deserved retribution against the forces of Heaven.

Far too many.

* * *

Cas didn't, despite their invitation, join the boys in their motel after they'd wrapped up. After they'd taken witness statements and the like, and after they'd subtly but thoroughly cleaned out the house. One day someone would find the (literal) skeletons in the closet, but Cas was optimistic about the truth of their involvement.

Neither brother seemed to be comfortable with it, but he promised to check in later on in the evening to placate any worries, and assured them that, no matter what, he was strong enough to fight his way out.

He'd managed through worse.

No matter what he would face, he knew he could say that. The legions of Hell, for example, are not all that receptive in a messenger of God forcing his way through the ranks.

He watched the impala go, that sweet setting sun flinging hot orange rays off the black, sleek exterior. The impala's windows gleamed a bright white and cut off any visuals of the boys as they drove off, but Cas didn't mind. He was too caught up in his own thoughts, too shortsighted and mourning, in legitimate _mourning_ , to really see beyond himself.

He sighed and turned to walk away. As usual, he would stroll all night long, staring along the roads and up at the sky. This world was beautiful. The angels who had sung it into life had woven an infinitely complex and beautiful pattern. A pattern of stars and planets, love and hope.

Cas grimaced as he began to walk. _Life and death._

Because no matter how bad it had been, those angels had still deserved a chance. Still deserved redemption. Like him. Like Gadreel.

He heard a gasp, and the tell tale sound of blade sliding down across skin, the steady thump of  a handle falling comfortably into the base of someone's palm.

Cas didn't even have time to duck as a hand swung out, big and bold.

The last thing he heard before he closed his eyes and everything went black, was a female's voice, small and furious.

" _You_!"

* * *

"Come on, Baby," her mother told her, detached, holding onto her hand. "We gotta go."

"What about Daddy?" Claire Novak asked, her hair swinging as she looked from the retreating angel to her mother and then back again, fearful, to where her father and the angel had just disappeared. Sam and Dean were still watching them, silent, grim. Dean seemed fearful of Sam, and Sam seemed ashamed to be near Dean.

Whether, in her possession hazed mind, she ever connected that it was because of the demon blood stuck around his mouth and crusted on the bottom of his chin, she'd never know.

"Come on," Dean said, but he couldn't look her in the eye. He was ashamed, she realised. Ashamed that he'd been part of this, that he hadn't _fixed_ this, that their family was in tatters. "We'll give you a lift."

Claire didn't want to. She would have preferred to walk than be with two complete strangers while going through the worst thing that had ever happened to her. But her mother, ever smiling, ever thankful, recently exorcised, agreed.

"Yes, thank you," Amelia smiled, and Claire held onto her hand as she was led out to the old, black car that her father had driven off in. Claire climbed in first, and then her mother. Neither let go of the others hand.

* * *

Gran and Grandad came around a few weeks after Jimmy had left. Amelia had told Claire what had happened, _everything_ that had happened, and everything about Claire felt small and guilty. She wondered if her mother had told her all that because she was so bitter that her daughter hadn't been the one to go.

She wondered what she would have preferred.

"Honey, come on, you gotta eat something," her grandmother crooned, pushing the spoon her soup had been served with into the ball and offering it to Claire to take. "You can't go on like this. Your fathers gone, sweetie. You gotta push passed it."

"Mom isn't," Claire said, in a small voice, looking over to where her mother was sitting, staring at the wall. She hadn't worked in weeks, and whether it was because of the possession or the shock of losing her husband again, Claire couldn't be sure. All she knew was, that when she woke up, crying in the night, no one rushed to her room to comfort her.

Her Gran tutted disapprovingly. "Your mother is sorting through some things. We just gotta put her in God's hands now." Her soft, wrinkly face eased into a placating smile. "Don't worry. He'll see us through. He's always been good to our family."

Claire didn't respond to that, because, how could she? God and Heaven had taken _everything_ from them. She felt hisses of fury steal down her spine every time she saw the cross that hung around her grandmothers neck. She felt searing _anger_ whenever someone told them that 'everything happened for a reason' and that 'God worked in mysterious ways'. Because he _didn't_. That was _bullshit_.

Heaven was incredibly _selfish_. Castiel could have _healed_ Jimmy and _left_ Claire and gone _back_ to Heaven where he _belonged_.

Her Gran sensed the resentment, but at that point, didn't do anything to stem it. She just pursed her lips, judgement in Claire's lack of faith clear across her features, and pushed at the spoon again.

"Eat up," and this time, it was an order. "You're being selfish. You need to be strong for your mom."

Claire picked up her spoon and started to eat. She didn't taste the food, but she wiped the ball clean.

She followed her Gran's orders perfectly for the rest of the week. When her grandfather finally convinced his wife to send Amelia to a psychiatrist, Claire held her mother's hand in the waiting room. When her grandfather had told her to come with him to the shops, she'd listened as he'd told her about the ways of the world and why getting over her father was allowed to take a long time. She turned the TV down when her grandmother said it was too loud and she went to school and did her homework, washed her clothes and ironed her school dress. She heated soup up from the cans stacked at the back of their pantry and when her mother was willing, sit beside her and hug her. Two people comforting each other at the end of the universe.

She did all that. She was _perfect_. She did her best to be strong. For her mom and for her Dad's memory and for her Grandparents, who she caught just _watching_ her mother with the biggest, saddest eyes.

But on Sunday, when her Gran told her to put on her good clothes, that they were going to Church, she screamed, _screamed_ , in her face and refused. Point blank.

She locked herself in her room and on the wall, wrote _I HATE HEAVEN_ in block letters. Permanent marker. Removed later by bleach.

* * *

In Pontiac, there was an old house teenagers went to. There weren't all that many scary stories surrounding it, which was surprising to Claire, who thought it'd be an epicentre for urban legend. But the house was so constantly used and so often full of life that the idea of anything dark possessing it was almost laughable. Kids would go there to smoke pot and think about life, get wasted and bitch about their parents.

But the first time Claire went, she went alone. She hadn't been invited, and for the first time in months, there was no one hanging around. She walked through the rooms, just thinking. 15 years old and practically the carer for her mother.

She'd never gotten over that night. When her husband had left and she'd been possessed.

And still, Claire didn't know if it was the former or the latter that had hit home hardest.

"Hello?" She called out, because she wanted to know if she were alone. She wanted to explore this house, this surprising piece of normality. She'd heard some girls in school talking about it, and she'd wanted to see what they'd seen.

The old house everyone knew about. The old house everyone went to. The old house that, to Claire, for a shining second, symbolised everything that she had lost.

There was no answer, but she wasn't afraid. What could hurt her, now? She had been the vessel for an angel, but the demons had left her alone. Whether it was because it had been so brief of a possession, or because they just hadn't known, she wasn't sure.

And honestly, she didn't really care.

She strolled around a few times, staring unblinkingly at an old cross erected over the dead fireplace. She hadn't gone to church since her father had left for the second time. Her mother had never been well enough, and her grandmother hadn't forced her again. Not after having to wash off the message on Claire's wall.

And of course, smiling wryly, Claire remembered how little her Grandmother _looked_ at her recently. How abhorrent her granddaughter was to her.

Her Grandad still came over, more and more than her Gran. He'd buy food if they were out, talk to Amelia, help Claire with her homework and then leave. Claire wished he would never come, because saying goodbye was always too hard. Leaving her to that quiet house, that house chock full of things that no one wanted to talk about.

In the upstairs bedroom, where a stained mattress lay atop a steel, rusting bed frame, Claire stopped.

Her detachment with the world, she was curious to find, didn't just cover the mundane things. She was still grey and staring when she saw the dead body, the scorch marks of wings, the burnt out eyes.

She knew what it was immediately. The angel was lying arms apart and legs spread before it. Within its chest was a blade, and a cold certainty rushed through Claire as she realised something she'd never before. The angels could die. The angels could be killed.

She walked over slowly, picked the sword up, and, deliberating for a second, took the body and hid it. The wings would never wash off the walls, but she almost wanted to leave them.

She washed the angels blood off under a tap, and hid the sword beneath the folds of her coat. Even if she had been brandishing it in front of her, her mother wouldn't have noticed. And even if she had, she wouldn't have cared.

* * *

Finding ways to amuse herself with the angel blade came at a cost. She never had time for homework and her grades slipped dramatically without any study. But any pleads of the teachers and the guidance counsellors fell on deaf ears.

"You're throwing your life away," Mr. Hendricks told her, in that passive, persuasive voice that all adults manage to replicate in times of dire need, or when they need to convince a child of something. "Far be it for me to say, but you have to keep working. You can't cut off all your opportunities at such a young age."

The guidance counsellors office was _nice_. It had books on adolescents by men aged well into their prime, and the psychology of a developing brain. It had pamphlets from universities and colleges and a painting behind his desk of a vase of flowers. But he was an idiot, and Claire wanted to leave.

"Right," she agreed absently, nodding where she had to, making small noises of assent when there was a pause in his story. "Yeah."

"I'm so glad we had this chat," he said, smiling. Claire almost felt bad for him, that he didn't understand how complex the world was. That what she was doing was infinitely more important than school work. And unimaginably more satisfying.

"Me too," Claire agreed, preparing to stand, hands hooked around the ends of the armrests of her chair.

"If you ever want to talk to me, my door is always open," he smiled at her, as she peeled herself up and made her way to the door.

"Thanks, Mr. Hendricks," in the most thankful, sincere voice she could muster. "That means a lot."

* * *

The years flipped passed and nothing changed. Now she had an ultimatum. Any moment not at school had been left to training.

Running, she could run for miles without stopping.

Fighting, she would persuade anyone she could to teach her _anything_. The lady cop who smiled at her whenever their paths met showed her how to disarm a knife-carrying opponent, the karate Sensei had taught her how to channel her strength.

Claire _fought_ for her fight. She _battled_ for her war. She had to climb to the top of the tallest mountain just to have a chance to compete.

But it'd be worth it. She would always remember that. That it'd be worth it when she found him. When she finally _got him._

If her mother had noticed the change, she hadn't said. And Claire hadn't expected her to. Her grandfather had remarked that she was getting stronger, her grandmother scolded her for the drop in her grades. Either way, they both treated her with a reserved distance. There was no intimacy in their relationships anymore. Any love spun over from childhood was ignored. Any memory of why they truly loved each other was pushed to the side.

She thought about those brothers from time to time, Sam and Dean, the ones who had taken her and her mother back home after Castiel had walked off with her father. What would they think of her? Would they agree? Her mother, in a brief stint of sanity and clarity, had researched hunters and the Life. Looked up angels that were _actually_ angels, and not some religious freaks wet dream. And demons who were really demons, not some monster  created to scare children into behaving.

She hadn't found much on the latter two, but on Hunters, she'd managed to dig up some stereotypes and basic build ups. That more often than not, they hit the road for vengeance. That, more often than not, they wreaked an unholy back trail of despair and death.

She didn't know Sam and Dean's story. But she knew, that if they were like her, that if they were put in her position, they would have done the same thing. And there was something comforting about that, that there was nothing all that special about the way she had reacted. That she was a human, acting on human impulse and human decisions.

Claire had finally decided to adopt the title when she was 16 and officially dropped out of school. She liked how it sat on her tongue. " _Angel Hunter_."

And how she was seen, as a shadow and a the beating wings of a bat along the night sky. The closeting wings that cut off vision of the stars. She could not be beat. She was their apocalypse, their judgement, the angels rapture. She was a girl with a spine of steel and the heart of an eagle. She ripped the feathers off Angels and let them drop behind her in a bloody trail of retribution.

_Heaven had taken everything. And so she would take Heaven._

But still she remained a mystery, of the most part. Whispered conversation and meaningful looks, a worried feeling in the pit of a stomach and drumming, final heartbeats of some angels vessel.

Some nights she just stared at the wall and pictured all the blood that had been spilt in her name. In the name of her father. Awash the hands of Castiel, enough to ease the sea from blue to a gritted red. Sometimes she would tend to her wounds, never wincing, never crying out. Sometimes she would carefully scrub the bloodstains off the clothes she didn't have the money to replace. Sometimes she would sit on the top of the car she'd been 'borrowing' and stare at the stars. At the moon. At the clouds. Memorising the way it turned above her head. Memorising despite that it changed every night.

Then sometimes, Claire would sleep. Curled up into a ball, a slave to exhaustion. Her eyes would close and the darkness would come too quickly. She would have nightmares. Every night. The worst kind. The kind that you could feel the fear, taste it at the top of your throat every time you wake up. But the kind you can't remember, the kind you can't assure yourself _wasn't_ real.

And she would wake up alone. In a strange place. With strange noises and smells.

And then she'd get up. And turn the lights on.

* * *

She had known what the 'meteor shower' was as soon as it happened. She could see the wings, see the formation, see the way her blade could pierce through their hearts.

* * *

She was doing the world a service, after all. A world without angels definitely _would_ be a world worth living in. Claire was almost excited for the way things would end up panning out. She never wondered what would happen to Heaven. She never could force herself to think like that. Things were unbearably complicated enough.

Some things must be forgotten in order for a hypothesis to be right. This was no different.

She would rip through every angel she found until she found the one who had stolen her Dad. She would cut the throats of thousands if it meant one _moment_ alone with Castiel.

She would kill him. Of course she would.

But then the angels started disappearing, and Claire was strung into a panic. What would happen? Had she lost her _only chance_?

But then more symbols appeared, and like a lioness to prey, she stalked close enough to strike. She waited and she watched and she _stared_ at this house, this ex-sorority. She memorised it and she went in.

And there were no survivors.

But all the dead angels, all the retribution, had nothing on this. On Castiel, drawn to the place as she had been. Castiel, _still_ using her father as a vessel, still carting around the body that had once been so _full_ of life and love and _person_. Claire had felt no hesitation, she had felt no tremor of uncertainty, nor any flicker of doubt.

She would not kill him. Not yet. She would do everything she could to save her father.

If he was still there, he deserved a second chance, deserved any attempt necessary to rid him of what he was forced to carry. If he was gone, he deserved peace, Claire, her mother and all the rest of his family deserved closure.

And in any way, Castiel had to die.

And this time, the reasons were entirely selfish. This time, there would be nothing her father or her mother or her lost childhood would receive from the death of the angel. Only her steel, hard retribution. Only her desperate, seething rage.

She would kill the angel, and she would do it for herself.

* * *

Cas came back in blinks. His head was heavy, his eyes thickly pasted together and his tongue rough and heavy in his mouth. He'd been knocked out before, primarily when he'd been powered down, or when he'd been attacked by another angel, but he knew beyond his experience that humans _could_ knock angels unconscious. Perhaps with a significant increase in the force behind the blow, but possible all the same.

Before forcing his eyes open to a squint, Cas focused on his breathing, on his hearing. He thought he heard a drip, maybe the creaking of old timber in the wind. He expanded his range and focused, hard, on all the little things. Far away, a basketball was bouncing on the pavement of some neighbours driveway, and he used to rhythm to prop himself up.

His eyes opened, first in brief flashes, and then in squeamish slits. He swallowed heavily and looked around the room. He tugged on his hands and felt the cruel metal of the cuffs tugging on his wrists  and recognised the drain he'd been experiencing since he'd awoke to be the angel sigils robbing him of his power.

"Take all the time you need," a female voice said, in a short, icy manner that led Cas to assume the exact opposite.

Cas finally forced his eyes to look through their full extent, and looking around the room, he wished he had another reason to close them. Any light was coming from the lamps set up around the room, and the basement below the house he'd been investigating showed through its windows that the sun had backed off from its duties of day.

It was late. Sam and Dean were probably already asleep and weren't expecting him until morning. He was alone.

Alone with her.

Admittedly, it took him a little while to recognised her. An embarrassing while, considering the old wives tales about angels and their vessels. She was glaring at him, glaring outright, such sheer hatred turning her pretty face into a viscous _bite_.

Claire Novak.

And Castiel felt terribly _ashamed_. Because he had pushed her to this, _he_ was the one who had possessed her, stole her father, tore her life apart. He couldn't have known that she would become a Hunter, but that didn't mean that anything else he had done was forgiven.

He couldn't have known that _anything_ emotional would have been the cause of what he did. What he did to their family. But he _had_ known. Known and done it anyway.

And the guilt only grew as he saw, not hatred, under her enraged facade, but terrible sadness.

Fate had dealt Claire and her family a low blow. And Cas had never taken it upon himself to repay them.

"Claire," he said, softly, gravelly. He looked away, to the floor, lost in thought and giving her time to regain herself. He saw her flinch when he said her name, her name from her Dad's lips. After so long. After so many years of waiting and fighting.

Claire's voice didn't have any tears on it, nor did it sound pained other than angry as she spoke again. "Castiel. You have something of mine."

Cas looked up at her mournfully. He adjusted the hands in the cuffs behind his back for just a moment, buying him a second of time in which he could calm himself, placate himself. Getting worked up wouldn't help either of them. He needed to talk her down, he needed to make her see reason. He needed to save himself. "I know."

Claire's voice came out again, but this time it was _so much younger_. Castiel fell powerless against heartbreak, and, once again, pitied her. Pitied the girl who wanted to kill him, who'd tied him up in a basement under a house where she'd killed dozens of his siblings. _Sympathy for the Devil_. "You..." She swallowed. "You haven't changed." She stopped short, blinking. Her face turned hard again, and her voice aged. " _He_ hasn't changed. But you have, haven't you, Castiel? Word is, you're not the same angel you were when you possessed me. When you possessed my father." Claire's face was dark, insidious. "Word is, at times, you weren't even an angel at all."

Castiel swallowed away a dry throat and tried to find something to say that would make everything ok. That would placate her. But anything said would be out of the mouth of the body of her father, and anything said would _not be enough_. But he had to say _something_. The only thing he could do to make matters worse would be to patronize her.

Here she was, the daughter of a man who'd given up everything for a misplaced faith, with tears in her eyes and a tugging tear on her heart, with the world in her hands and a once-rebellious angel on the end of a leash.

So Cas swallowed again, looked up calmly and settled, indefinitely, on the truth. "They're right," he said, fighting the urge to swallow yet again, throat dry with nervousness. With shame. "I was once, recently, human."

"Why?" Claire's question was snappy, to the point, snarled across at the angel.

"Metatron—"

"Who?"

"Metatron was a scribe of God, before he disappeared," Cas explained easily, gazing high up to the daughter of his vessel and doing his best to just... _make her_ understand. "He fled to earth when the Archangels were gathering power. The archangels were—"

"I _know_ who the archangels are," Claire snapped, cutting him off, angry and offended that he'd assumed she hadn't known. Of _course_ she'd known, and Cas had to curse to himself. He owed her better than that. He owed her more _respect_ than that. She'd been fighting after her father for years, she'd been immersed in this world since she was 12. Cas _himself_ had cut her childhood short and ruined her life.

Cas closed his eyes, just for a moment, before he would go on with his story. His eyes were closed in shame. He wasn't the same, rule abiding angel that he had been. His mind was free from that mindless loyalty that he'd once been prisoner to. But his past still existed, and ignoring it would only insult those he had harmed. If he hadn't taken Jimmy, he would have taken Claire. He would have possessed a _child_. Robbed two parents of their daughter and never once looked back.

 _But things had been different, hadn't they?_ He thought bitterly. _Only a daughter and a wife of their husband and father. Only a family of their third unit._

"Metatron extracted my grace and the angels fell," Cas explained, and her eyes brightened up when she heard the last part.

"I knew it," her voice was hushed, but excited. She looked at Cas, squinting her eyes like she thought he might be lying. She seemed satisfied, however, and turned back to herself, pacing and holding her left hand within her right. "All the angels, that's what they were talking about. I _knew_ there weren't  supposed to be that many angels on earth at a time."

"No," Cas agreed, and she looked over as he spoke. Any wonder and realisation slipped from her face as she took in him. It was replaced by a heartbreaking loneliness, a terrible mask of stillness. Cas felt himself crumble, shatter, _regret_. If _only_ he'd listened to Anna, if _only_ God had never left, if _only_ the archangels hadn't—

There was no time for that. Not now. Those thoughts, the thoughts he hadn't been able to escape for years had been his constant companions throughout the years. With them he found a sense of worth, found the gravity of what he and the Winchesters had achieved. But here they were inappropriate. He needed to focus on Claire. He needed to be forgiven.

"They're not," Cas finally finished. He looked down at his lap. "They were supposed to be home. In Heaven."

Claire was silent. When she finally spoke, she was more curious than demanding, but her tone still cut. Her stare still burned. "Where are they now? These were the first I'd seen in ages."

"Heaven," Cas answered dutifully, simply. "We have opened up passages for them to get home."

Claire looked curious. "How did you... your Grace, I mean, I assume—"

"A spell," Cas told her, smiling too tightly, slightly too sombre. "The other angels—they helped me."

"And the spell," Claire asked, casually, picking up her pacing again, left hand slotted back inside her right. Cas watched it, and it was almost like she was comforting herself. Cas fought the urge to swallow, to close his eyes, to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. She didn't deserve grovelling. She deserved his acceptance, his admittance, his cold, easy surrender. It didn't matter that she was comforting herself, just as it wouldn't matter if there were _no_ outward characteristics that she was upset at all. She would get her repayment.

But he _needed_ his forgiveness.

Claire looked over at him. "Was it reversed?"

"To cast the angels to Earth?" Cas asked her, and she nodded. He paused, for a moment, before answering slowly. "It can't be." He looked up at her. "It's irreversible."

"But you can still move between Earth and Heaven," Claire clarified, tilting her head, confused.

"Yes," Cas struggled, trying to figure out how to properly explain the incredibly complex highs and lows of the spell and the spell work and the writing on the tablet, but he settled for something a lot easier. Something that she'd recognise. Something, perhaps, that she'd pity. "But our Wings were taken from us."

"Forever," Claire finished, dumbfounded, a little shocked. She was still clasping her hands around each other, but she seemed less tense. Caught out in what Cas had said, distracted by imagining it. "I..." She paused, and when she looked at Cas, her eyes were wide with understanding. But there were no tears. She was nowhere near tears. "I killed Angels...who had no way to get out."

"Claire," Cas said suddenly, worriedly, but she ignored him.

"I don't... I..." Claire ran a hand through her hair. It was likely that if she had known, she still would have gone in. The angels, in her world, needed to be killed. Driven out. Eradicated. They were monsters. Who killed her father and possessed innocent people and ruined lives.  But in the aftermath, figuring that there was some semblance of a clear playing field, where the angels had all of their powers at disposal and Claire had all her strength; it must have been shocking.

She took a deep, steadying breath, and when she looked across at Cas, she, without regret or happiness; without _anything_ , pulled out her angel blade.

* * *

Crappy motels all have one thing in common. Not all have the pay-per-view TV's, some don't have the mouldy stains on the roof or the stench of cigarette smoke threaded into the carpet. Some even manage a shower that goes above (...in line with) Sam's head, so he manages to get a semi-comfortable shower.

No, but all do have one thing. And that's the attraction of easy, cheap rooms. And what those rooms could be used for with people who are both easy and cheap.

Sam didn't know if it was a prostitute or a mistress, but he did know that whatever was going on in the room next to his and Dean's was _way_ too loud.

She let out a squeal of pleasure and Sam, hunched over his laptop, winced and very determinedly immersed himself in correctly filing all the photos they'd taken at the crime scene. There were snaps of the dead bodies, but the one that came up the most was the message on the wall. Sam knew they would get the most from dwelling on what they had already uncovered. That the killer was searching for retribution from the angels.

Sam grimaced as he realised how large the pool still was.

The dude... in the motel next to theirs, let out a massive moan just as she let out a high pitched panting.

Sam hunched in on himself and fought the urge to run his head through his hands.

"Huh," Dean commented, compared to Sam, completely unperturbed by the situation. He flashed Sam a smile that said 'Oh, you gorgeous, Naive little thing' before biting on one of the chips that Sam had bought for him.

"Huh," Sam agreed, his voice a little too forced and awkward to meet Dean's easy tone, but Sam was proud that with it, he'd managed to disperse most of the awkwardness over the whole situation.

Dean seemed pretty satisfied with that for a conversation closer, and returned to leafing through their Dad's journal. They hadn't added much to the notes John had made, but Dean had suggested they try it, and Sam wasn't going to stop him.

Sam, however, needed something to distract him. "Uh, you think we should call Cas?"

"Why?" Dean asked, looking over, frowning and swallowing the rest of his food. "Didn't he say he wanted a little 'Me Time'?"

"Still dude, he can't be on his own for too long," Sam said, insisting almost, but too gentle to be forceful.

"He's a big boy, he can take care of himself," Dean insisted, exasperated. He looked over to Sam's untouched burger. Dean pointed to it and smiled at his younger brother hopefully. "Can I?"

"Sure," Sam waved him on, still worried over Cas. "Seriously, he shouldn't be alone. He's in the same area of someone hunting angels, and just saw the bodies of his family. He would have known them for his whole life." Sam swallowed. "It was a massacre in there, dude."

"Cas has killed more angels himself, at once, in _Heaven_ ," Dean stated flatly, bitterly, not looking at Sam and pretending to devote all his attention to balancing the burger in his fingers. He side eyed Sam, still sour, still angry. Sam had thought maybe his brother had been moving on, progressing. But perhaps it was just that he'd gotten better at hiding it. "He'll be fine."

Sam hesitated. His brothers weary, angry glance gave him more need for tact than what he had said. But still, he stood by his comment. Cas shouldn't have been allowed to go off alone. Fuck that he was 'old' and 'sage' and 'wise'. He'd just seen the angels he had been going to forgive lying dead on the floor. He needed his friends.

"An hour," Sam agreed, looking out to the setting sun. He clicked back onto his computer screen, relieved when Dean didn't argue.

* * *

"Claire," Cas's voice was soft. "Don't."

"You took my Dad," her voice wobbled, but only slightly. Cas wondered how many times she'd said that one line in the mirror, how many times she'd thought of him, and that was the one, constant thought she was about to comprehend. "You took _everything_."

Cas stared at her. "I'm _sorry_."

She looked unblinkingly at him for a second, before her face screwed up and she lashed out, handle end of the blade crashing along his cheek. "That's no _good enough_!"

"I don't—"

"You have _ruined my life_ ," Claire snarled. "You _took_ my Dad, my Mom is _insane_. I've killed _dozens_ of angels who were possessing people who could still be saved, and all of it, all that bad blood, is on _your_ hands."

"Whatever you think you've done, it's not irredeemable," Cas told her gently. "We can fix this, Claire. It doesn't have to end up like this."

"You don't think I deserve to kill you?" Claire demanded, hands tight around the handle of her sword. Her eyes nearly _glowed_ with anger, and heat rushed red to her face. "You don't think I deserve peace?"

"Killing doesn't _bring peace_ ," Cas was adamant, staring at her. She was just a girl, she was just a human. She was so young, so fragile. She'd substituted a life of swaying and floating for brittle rigidness. She was so close to snapping. "You have to _know_ this, Claire. Peacetime is when people are _not_ dying."

"This isn't for the _greater good_ , this is for me," Claire said. And she knew it was selfish, she knew that killing Cas might ruin things, but she was going to do it anyway. She was going to kill the angel who had fucked up her life. And there was no way, on Heaven or Earth, that Cas could hate her for that. "And for my mom, and my Dad. For my _family_."

"I am _so sorry_ ," Cas told her lowly. He felt his bravado break, but he knew he had to keep living. There was still so much work to be done in Heaven, still so many things to do and people to meet. Hannah was still his dearest sibling, Sariel was still in need of his assistance. "But I've changed. I'm not the same angel I was all those years ago."

Claire's face was a mask. "And I'm not the same girl."

* * *

"It rang out," Sam said worriedly. The sun had well and truly set by now, and Dean was resting on his bed, eyes half closed as he watched the TV. He jerked to consciousness at his brothers tone, though, and blinked over.

"Sorry, what?"

"Cas," Sam explained, waving his phone in Dean's direction. "He isn't picking up."

"Dude's probably—"

"Dean, if you say _fine_ one more time, I swear to God," Sam snapped warningly. He knew Dean's flippancy over his friends came more from a defensive mechanism than actually not caring for them, but it was irritating all the same.

Dean threw up his hands. "Fine, fine. Sorry. Where do you think he is?"

"I don't know," Sam said. "That's the problem."

Dean scooted to the edge of his bed and jumped up, stretching, yawning and moving over. "Try him again."

"I—fine," Sam hit redial and waited. It hit the monotonous voice of those allocated voice machine recordings. He hit the call end before it could prompt him to leave a message.

Dean looked appropriately worried now, his mused hair and sleep squinting eyes made him look even younger than Sam. "Crap. What do you think we should do?"

"Sorority," Sam said, and Dean understood his meaning immediately. "We can go on from there."

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I'll get the guns."

"Awesome," Sam replied distractedly, picking up his jacket and looked around for another thing to grab before they left.

* * *

"Do you want to know _why_ I haven't left Jimmy?" Cas demanded of her. "Your father?"

Claire winced at the last words, but the asking only seemed to anger her. "What _possible_ —"

"Because he's already _dead_ , Claire," Cas said tiredly. He looked at her apologetically, realising how blunt his words were far too late. Her face cracked and her eyes welled up with tears. All the strength and defiance she'd relied on to carry her through the years had been built on the belief that her father was still alive. Dormant, sleeping, but very much alive. "I... The past years have not been kind, Claire."

"I didn't think Angels _could_ possess dead bodies," Claire's voice was barely above a whisper. Her admitted knowledge seemed to reinstate her unyielding back bone. "Liar." And then again, in a louder, venomous voice. " _Liar_."

"I'm not," Cas told her softly. "I... I've died. A lot. Recently." He looked up at her. "He never was going to make it."

"Where _is he_?" Claire asked, voice reaching to a shout. "What did you _do with him_?"

"I didn't—"

"You _killed him_!" Claire screeched, slamming the handle across his cheeks again. "You _stole_ him and you _killed_ him and..." She took a desperate lung of air. "I want my _father_ back, you son of a bitch."

"I'm _sorry_ —"

"I _don't care_ ," she snarled, and in her anger, frustration she forgot why Cas had brought it up in the first place. Why he possessed a dead body, why he hadn't left Jimmy to find another body. Perhaps it was because he liked this form, or because he didn't have the energy or the drive to find another vessel, but really, he couldn't hurt someone like that again.

The tiniest brush an ignorant human could have with the world that Cas was wading through could ruin everything. _Everything_.

It was _poisonous_ , and Claire was the result.

"I _am_ sorry," Cas gasped out, looking down and squeezing his eyes shut. "I _never meant for this to happen._ "

* * *

"He isn't in any of the rooms," Dean said worried, frowning at Sam, the gravity of the situation finally starting to settle in. "Dude, you don't..." Dean grimaced and Sam sighed.

"I dunno," Sam admitted. "I mean, he's not all that 'tech savvy'. He might have just gone off to kill some time and forgot to check."

"What, so now _you're_ the one going Cold Turkey?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows. "This is new."

"Oh, bite me," Sam rolled his eyes. He rested his hands out on a seat and leant on it, sighing again. "Well, anyway, he's not upstairs and he's not in the kitchen. Any other ideas?"

"Not really," Dean admitted. "This place have a garage?"

Then from the depths of the house, a great shout rose up to meet them. A screech, of rage an passion.

" _...Killed him!"_

And then a muffled _smack_.

Both brothers met the others eyes. Because whoever it was had come back. And they'd taken Castiel.

"The basement."

* * *

She had him by the scruff of his shirt, staring at him hard in the eyes. They were the same, of all of her, they were the same. The same shape and colour and brilliance. Everything else was changed and aged. But her eyes, in their softness and soulfulness, they'd stayed the same.

"Please don't kill me," Cas said, in almost a deadpan. But he wouldn't go back on all the things he'd already agreed on. He wouldn't grovel, beg. He wouldn't force her to watch that, to be forced to make a decision off of that.

"I _have_ to," she told him steadily. More disturbing still, was the slowness of her heartbeat, it's easy regularity. She'd been preparing for this since she'd seen him walk off 6 years ago. And it had payed off.

"I just..." Cas looked at her. "I have to live. Please." Sariel and Hannah and Heaven and Crowley and _Meg oh God Meg_ and Hell and the brothers, the Winchesters, Sam and Dean; his friends and family and enemies and _life_. "I _have_ to."

"I'm _sorry_ ," Claire said, voice filling, nearly cracking. Her heartbeat picking up, her face cracking. Cas's heart thudded empty in his chest. How many ways could a human girl break? "But I _have_ to kill you."

She swallowed, raised the blade above her head and then, deliberately adjusted the fingers on the blade.

"It's ok," Cas finally said. He looked down. He didn't want to see her face any more. He couldn't bear it. "I forgive you."

The pressure on the neck of his shirt eased off slightly for a moment, but clenched harder than ever when a voice shouted out from behind them.

"Cas!"

Cas looked up at his name, and Claire had twisted to see who'd come to his aid. Sam emerged first, holding his sawed off and pushing hair back from his face, stopping short at the sight of Claire. And then Dean, colt swinging through the doorway before himself.

"No, no, no," Claire stammered, stepping closer to Cas, and Cas knew in her desperation it would be quick. So he closed his eyes, and felt her prepare to draw back.

All pressure was wrenched off in one movement, in a cacophony of shouts and, more clear than anything, the broken screams and sobs of Claire Novak.

Who had only wanted to save her father. Who had only ever wanted to live her life.

As soon as Cas opened his eyes, he searched for hers.

For a brief, almost nonexistent second, they understood one another perfectly. In synch like the earth alongside a storm. But then her head turned, and the connection was broken, and her broken words filled up the room once again.

* * *

Sam might have been the soulful one, but Dean was the one who was good with kids. Despite the fact that Claire was no longer a kid, he was still the most appropriate for the job.

She had screamed herself hysterical, that desperate churning anger she'd been relying on had exhausted her. It had been pulled out from beneath her and she'd had nothing to rely on.

Dean had carried Claire's fainted form out the front door, careful of her feet and head, darkness overhead and the cracking of stones underfoot.

"Dad?" Claire muttered suddenly, twisting in Dean's arms as he made for the impala. He froze slightly, not knowing what to do. She wasn't being treated as hostile on Cas's orders, but Dean was still hesitant of her. She'd had the strength to knock an angel out, and then manoeuvre said angel into the basement of a house filled with the angels that _she'd_ slaughtered.

"No," he said finally, in a soft, comforting voice, moving out the car and pushing the gate open, the creak trilling down the empty street. "I am not your father."

Claire didn't move, or speak after that, and when he adjusted her into the impala, it seemed like she'd fallen asleep. So he closed the door, leant against the cool metal of his car and looked up to the heavens, wondering why it all had to go so wrong.

* * *

" _Dear Castiel,_

_I did not want to speak to you this morning for obvious reasons. The world has taken away, and it has given. But I can't look at you. Not now._

_But I can do this. This letter._

_I'll give it to Sam. He seems more responsible than his brother, and more likely to give you the letter within a week._

_Dean has given me the number of Krissy Chambers, a girl Hunter who he says is my age and would be able to help me, should I need it. I might see her, she seems like a person worth talking to. I don't want to go back to the life I left, but I can't stop hunting angels and monsters. Not when I know what's out there. That's sort of it, isn't it? When you know of the injustices in the world, ignoring it makes you just as liable as the attacker._

_I don't know why I didn't kill you when I had the chance. I don't know why I hesitated. Perhaps it was because you were in the body of my father, or because when you possessed me, you left all my private thoughts untouched, or perhaps it is because you forgave me for killing you. But none of it matters, because it shouldn't have mattered. And you should have died._

_For mom, for Dad, for me._

_But I won't hunt you anymore. I won't get lucky a second time, I know this._

_But I can't forgive you for what you did._

_If we ever meet again, we won't be friends. But equally, I can't call us enemies. If I ever see you again, I'll walk off in the opposite direction, and I hope you do so as well._

_So I'm gone. Off to live 'the Life', off to save a few people and make my dad proud. Off to make the most of this path you've forced him onto._

_I keep wondering_

_I just wonder what would have happened if I_ had _killed you. What that would have meant and_

_I mean my whole life was just this drive you find you and end you and I'd relied on it for so long. Maybe this intervention saved me, maybe this is me dangling off the cliff but not falling. Not letting myself fall just yet._

_I won't look for you. Thank you for forgiving me._

_Claire Novak, Angel Hunter"_

* * *

Dean slammed the lid of the esky closed and walked over to where Sam was relaxing, reclined against the impala, basking in the warming days. It would be spring in a few weeks, but on that day, it felt like it had come already.

Sam's shirt was pushed up to his elbows, and Dean had half a mind to rest the beer closer to his body to bring down his body temperature. But he didn't. He just rested next to Sam.

"So," he said finally. "Little Claire Novak. Angel Hunter."

"Little Claire Novak," Sam agreed, taking a swig of the beer and wiping the extra drops off with the side of his hand in one practised movement. "Indeed."

Dean let the silence grow, before he broke it, voice deliberately casual. "So, she'll be ok with Krissy, won't she?"

"Huh?" Sam looked over, stunned out of his own reverie. "Of course."

Dean took a deep breath and took another drink of his beer. "Good."


	13. 1967 Things I Hate About You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A girls suspicious death leads the brothers to a town, suspecting a witch of the crime.

The car that Lucy had been given on her 16th birthday hadn't come without its extensive list of demands and rules. A step out of line and she'd lose her license without warning, without discussion. She'd thought it had been a tight deal until her Dad had gone through what he considered 'rule breaking', and then she was sure that he had to have made a mistake. No boys, home at least half an hour before Curfew (which Lucy angrily had snapped meant that her curfew had become half an hour shorter) and another long list of things that she had to worry about.

Her father had been right about one thing in his endless chastising about the car, but not for the reason he thought.

"A Car's a dangerous thing, Lu," he told her, over a roast on one particularly nice Tuesday evening. "You gotta respect that. You gotta respect it and it might just respect you back. But if it does, then it's a kindness."

Lucy's dad was always saying overly dramatic things like that, personifying things and making life into a bigger spectacle than it needed to be. But she loved him anyway. How couldn't she? Someone cares about you that much, and you're bound to reciprocate the feelings to some degree. Didn't mean that she agreed with him on the car, though. The car was a thing. _Her_ thing. And she was its god. There was no where she was safer.

Or, so she said giggling with the neighbour boy after a few shots of tequila.

But driving in it after staying late after school late on Friday Afternoon felt _off_. The engine hummed perfectly and her seat grooved to hold her weight. The clutch held firm in her hand and the wheel span easily under her fingers as she turned the corner. It wasn't dark, not yet. She was noting that particularly, because summer had always been her favourite season and she couldn't wait for the days to grow longer.

So the days spilled on, and they grew longer, summer appeared as a promise in the distance, and Lucy had had to stay late after school to finish off an assignment.

She was 15 minutes away from her house when the clench of worrry in her stomach started to heat up. There was something _wrong_. She _knew_ it. Her Dad, in one of his many lectures about Car Safety, had mentioned something about the importance of Gut Instinct. She had only been half listening, of course, but the mood and the general idea of the conversation brought her into action. She needed to move.

She reasoned that if she was wrong, and that there was nothing wrong, she could just pretend she'd pulled over to text. Then she'd look social _and_ responsible, and figured if you wanted the best of both worlds, those were a pretty good place to start.

The indicator ticked as she drove off towards the side of the road, and scanning up ahead and behind her, she smoothly pulled in to park parallel to the curb.

Lucy let her hands fall to her lap for a moment, indecision eating at her as she fiddled her lip with her teeth.  If she got up and moved, it would mean that he had won. That she had listened to him. But then _again_ , if she got up, checked everything and found nothing to be wrong, then really, _she_ was the right one. And she'd have some fodder to use against him next time he sat her down to lecture her about the importance of airbags.

She shut the radio off and let herself think in silence for a moment, eyes still staring vacant, frowning slightly, seatbelt digging into her neck.

She sighed suddenly and clicked the belt off. "C'mon, Lucy," she told herself lowly, pushing her hair back from her face and turning the car into neutral. "You're over thinking things again."

The tension in her stomach reached breaking point and with a harsh grimace she clutched her abdomen. Her eyes widened as she realised what was happening, because oh God, she _should have_ —

Bright sparks of heart wrenching pains stung along the bottom of her stomach, building and building, cresting over her stomach and sneaking wire through her veins. She let out a hoarse scream, but every breath was wasted on breathing, on backing up, on curling up, on clutching herself.

 _No, no_. She doubled over in groans, eyes screaming shut. "N... _no_...I—"

Any other words were caught off with a massive fit of heaving, nothing came up, except afterwards, coughing and sweating and mewling in pain, she brought up a thimble full of blood.

She dug her fingers into her stomach, trying to force whatever it was _out_. And she didn't even feel the cuts along her skin, or the blood beginning to seep from her wounds. She just moaned in pain and grinded her teeth.

Lucy sank between her seat and the driving wheel, feet crushed up against the accelerator. She heaved against the seat and, staring up at the roof, she took her last breaths.

There was nothing poetic about her last moments. She simply sat there, in the car, engine running, sweat pooling down her forehead, until her heart stopped beating.

* * *

"Poor girl," Dean grimaced as he and Sam bent under the police tape, led up to the open door to the girls car on the morning after her body had been found. The trip hadn't been far, in fact, only about half an hour away from Lebanon, so they were there as soon as the system that Sam had set up on their computer, that recorded incoming police calls that fit a certain profile, had sensed it.

Sam made a noise of agreement, frowning next to Dean as they looked down at her. The police had been making their final reports on the girl's body and the way she was situated in the car, before the ambulance was ready to take her away. She looked bad, pale skin and tightly shut eyes, but Dean knew that if they didn't make a move on the corpse soon, there'd be trouble.

"Why's she still here?" Dean asked one of the Forensic team, who were checking over the fingerprints against the side window.

She looked up in surprise. Red hair not unlike Charlie, except over a body 20 years older. "Ah, fathers orders."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Her Dad wanted her to stay in the position that she died in? Pretty morbid, right?"

The officer shrugged, pushing her hair from under her cap around her ears. "He's sort of a bigwig. Fixated on that she was killed somehow. Wants us to make sure we got _everything_."

"Dean," Sam warned, nearly soundlessly, but Dean heard all the same. Didn't make his irritation any less when he looked down _again_ at the dead girl.

"Ugh," Dean winced, the reverence in which he'd held her body forgotten for a moment as he took in everything else. There was blood along her lip and clawed finger marks against her stomach. Like she'd been trying to rip the pain out. She hadn't gotten very deep, though, and the skin under her discarded hand, left floundering on her seat, wasn't nearly complete enough to suggest that _that_ had been the cause of death, which left one thing.

"So, she was in pain, her stomach," Sam nodded, and the Cop who'd been guiding them through the site nodded, sombre.

"As we assume," he said grimly. He ran a hand through his cropped, greying hair and gave the body a sad look. One that just screamed 'We're a tight knit community, and I knew the girl'.

When Dean thought through the line, he heard it in the multitude of Cop voices that they'd come across along the years. There was always some death, and it was always some friendly town, and everyone was always _somehow_ affected. Thinking about it made him want to, in equal parts, settle down with someone like Lisa (but not her, because she didn't deserve it. Because she'd been granted her freedom) in a nice, homely town, and then grabbing Sam and hunkering down, deep in the earth where they would only ever affect each other.

Dean smiled wryly to himself when he considered that they were halfway there, with the bunker buried as it was.

Dean was some parts aware that the reason everything toppled when Sam came back from Hell the first time was because he tried to keep one foot in the door. And then when Sam left Amelia (—Like Dean hadn't realised, like Dean wasn't supposed to _know_. Of _course_ he knew. He knew everything about his little brother. To the car he would steal if he were going incognito, to the motel room he'd hire out for a night with his demonic bunk buddy—) Dean saw Sam realise it as well.

There was no two ways. There was only forward. You were shoved out, and never allowed back in.

Stanford, Cassie, Lisa, Amelia. They were pit stops. Brief respites. But the never ending play would pick up again, and the running would begin.

"And what are your first thoughts on what caused the muscle pains?" Sam asked, directing his question towards the Cop but only sparing him a moment of a glance, before turning back to the girl, a pensive frown etched onto his face.

"No idea," the cop admitted. "The girl had no history of abdominal injuries, no pre-existing illnesses; nothing like that at all."

Healthy, normal, strange death. Dean had been sceptic when Sam had first brought it up, but standing here, listening to the unexplainable events, he had to admit that it _was_ in their ballpark. Sam certainly thought so. He had his 'this is our thing' suit on and was nodding, trying his hardest to apply all his learnt FBI knowledge.

Dean had to think that if they weren't convicted felons considered to be no longer breathing by all authorities, then they'd probably pass every FBI field test with flying colours.

The Bureau probably wouldn't have suited his brother though. Cutting off some of that hair would probably cause a shift in his brothers gravitational pull so profound that he'd be no longer able to angle a gun.

"Thanks, officer," Sam smiled. He pushed his pen and paper inside the pocket of his jacket and, with a quick look to his brother, nodded to the car. "Mind if we help take a look?"

"The body should be removed soon, and the car will be taken to a compound if you want to come later," Captain Todd suggested, apologetic as the hive of activity around them took a step into the forefront of their minds.

"We understand," Dean assured him. "Thanks for your time, officer."

Dean and Sam pulled away, giving terse final smiles of farewell and moving under the police tape towards the Impala.

"We'll want a coronary report, but things are looking pretty witchy from my end, Dean," Sam commented as they pulled through the parked police cars and the people talking, serious, on their phones.

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Right, well, I say we hit the local Diner—"

"I'm with you on that one," Sam grimaced, holding a hand lightly over his stomach. Ever since getting to Red Cloud, Kansas, they'd been flat out figuring how to investigate the death.  "I'm _starved_."

"Discuss the case, then head over to the vic's family. They gotta know if she had any enemies." Dean gave his brother, who had walked around to the shotgun side of the car a pointed look. "Mind-numbingly revolting enemies."

Sam didn't bless Dean's ongoing utter aversion to witches (which probably had more to do with what ingredients were required by the spells than the actual _evil_ involved) with an answer and just swept in, slamming the door behind him and waiting for Dean to clamber into the car. Her engine started smooth and fast, and with nostalgia bleeding behind them and into the leather seats of the car they were raised in, the Winchester boys slammed off down Main Street.

* * *

"Here you are, boys," the waitress smiled, placing down the cups of coffee in front of them while they waited for one salad and one large serving of cholesterol. Sam, as usual, had wrinkled his pretentious nose at Dean's order, and Dean, as usual, had made a gagging gesture and faint moaning noise while Sam was making his. It had gotten to the point where they didn't even question it anymore.

"Thanks," Dean said, coming again when he saw that the girl, who had to be in her early 20's at the latest, had just called them both 'boys'. He was in his mid-30's (late 20's) for God's sake!

"Boys?" Sam asked, after she had moved away, obviously put off and looking childish, not helping his case in the slightest, as he screwed his nose in distaste.

"Welcome to Kansas, Sammy," Dean raised his glass, and when Sam just gave him a look, he pretended to clink glasses anyway and took a measured sip of the scalding liquid. "Everyone under the age of dead is a boy, anyone over the age of 3 is a lady."

"You literally just made that up then," Sam state, unimpressed, tapping the side of his coffee cup as he waited for it to cool. "That makes no sense. When has that every happened?"

"Thanks for ruining the joke, Sam," Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam finally cracked a smile, bowing his head slightly as he snorted at his brothers antics and finally copied Dean and took a drink of his own coffee. "Whatever. You're an ass."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Dean told his little brother, aloof, irritating, admittedly an ass; and only in the way that older siblings could be.

Sam looked ready to pick up on that, but deemed better to leave it. Dean had to commend him on that one. He sighed fondly inwardly as he shifted his gaze over his little brother, who had finally succumbed to technology and had pulled out his laptop. Dean hadn't seen a sign for free wifi anywhere but Sam seemed not to have any trouble, typing and clicking behind the screen.

"Anything else come through?" Dean asked, half draining his cup in his second drink. The coffee wasn't good, but it certainly wasn't bad, and in Dean and Sam's line of work, not-bad by any means was worth ingesting.

"Not really," Sam scanned the screen, hitting the keyboard mouse a few times, different colours lighting up on his face and in the glassy whites of his eyes as he moved through the bookmarks they'd set up before leaving the bunker.

Dean hadn't wanted a repeat of the last time they'd gone on a hunt, and so he made sure that everything that they did was to the book; perfect. Everything that their Dad had taught them was followed through perfectly. They figured out the three most likely suspects, researched them thoroughly, took extra precautions to ward themselves against the three, learnt extra ways to defend themselves and even called Garth and Linda Tran for a second opinion. Garth had been the most help, with Linda nearly fallen to tears by the end of the conversation. He'd agreed with them on Witch or Curse Object, and had even offered to give them the numbers of specialised Witch Hunters.

Dean thought that was a little too Middle School Non Essential Humanities Project, so he rejected Garths offer and told Sam to pack his bag.

Truth be told, the reason Dean had actually taken so long to hit the road was because he was worried. Sure, Sam had _said_ that he wouldn't die, but Sam of all people knew the shitty luck people who tried to control their destiny ended up suffering under. There was no fairness in their existence, no compensation for their crap hole of a life.

Death had come to Dean, and he'd made his situation quite clear.

If Sam had suspected, he hadn't said. But Dean knew his little brother was far too smart to let something like that get the better of him. He and Dean knew their way around a rotten situation. He and Dean knew a thing or two about the way deals worked themselves out.

"Boys, your lunch," the Waitress came out again, and this time Dean was conscious enough without being thrown by her 'boys' that he could read the name of her tag.

"Thanks, Genevieve," he told her, and she smiled.  She moved off to a girl, who must have been about the victims age and placed an arm around the young girls shoulders. The girl shot the brothers a curious eye before responding to something that Genevieve said with a small shudder and a forced smile.

"To be fair," once Genevieve was out of ear shot and he'd already spread the dressing over his salad, Sam said with a casual voice. "A lot of people do call us 'boys'."

"Yeah, I guess," Dean admitted. "But most of them are primordial beings or evil vapours of black smoke corrupted in Satan's fiery butt crack."

 Dean could almost _hear_ the 'Very mature' from Sam's overzealous eye roll. "Everyone did. Charlie does."

"Charlie's the same age as you, not 10 years younger," Dean pointed out, and Sam nodded to concede the point.

"And I guess we can throw her a pass anyway," Sam mused out loud.

"I really think it's the 10 years thing."

"Yeah," Sam agreed seriously, the actual work for the case forgotten, open on his laptop which had been unceremoniously pushed to the side to make room for his lunch. "Yeah, I reckon so."

* * *

"And sorry, Mr. Greene," Sam gave him a small smile, seated as they were, across from him, elbows balanced on their knees. "But I have to ask, did Lucy have any enemies?"

"Enemies?" The father of the victim had been distraught. He was well respected within the community and the one so keen on figuring out if it was a murder case or not. Sam did have to give him credit for the way he'd handled things. Even though he'd never be, nor ever had been, a parent, Sam knew that the last thing he'd wanted to be doing while grieving a child was speak to two strangers about the sins that that child had committed while still alive.

"Yeah," Dean supplied. His eyes were alert and bright. Not like this time three years ago, where it would have been a miracle to hold a semi-serious conversation with sober. Sam knew he definitely preferred this new, active, _trying_ Dean, than the one who'd been on the knife edge of giving up, but everything now was suddenly thrown into doubt. Was he just acting? How did he _actually_ feel?

Not for the first time, Sam's heart panged deftly for the ease and comfort of expression and trust they'd had before Dean had gone to Hell.

"People she fought with, people who could wish her ill will. That sort of thing."

Mr. Greene shrugged. "Same as a I told the police. No one. She was a good girl. Had good friends. Good life. Good grades, new car, nearly grown—" he cut the sentence off to compose himself.

There might come a day when Sam didn't feel bad about pressuring parents and families into retelling the deaths of their loved ones, but he hoped not. That sort of apathy terrified him. He'd seen it, in himself, in his brother, and from everything he'd witnessed, all the death and horror and mayhem, it was _that_ which he never wanted to see again.

"It's alright, Mr. Greene," Sam assured him, feeling his heart reaching out, wanting to comfort the man. "We understand. We can cross reference your statement given to the police."

Mr. Greene nodded his faux understanding, and Dean jumped in, always fulfilling his role as the bad cop of the duo.

"But we'll need these friend's names, if you understand," Dean said, forcefully, businesslike. "Kids, especially at Lucy's age, are more likely to rely on close friends than her parents."

Mr. Greene nodded and swallowed, like he agreed but he wished he didn't have to. "Fair enough."

* * *

Sam had taken off his jacket as soon as they'd stepped foot into their motel room. He sighed with relief as he slung it over the chair and wandered to the fridge to pull out a beer. He gestured to Dean, who'd followed his lead by slinging the black suit jacket over the back of a chair and unbuttoning his sleeves and collar.

"Uh, yeah, sure," Dean said, distracted, sitting down at the table and setting up the laptop.

Sam slid the beer over to his brother, the condensed sides leaving a trail of chilled water in its wake. He walked off over to the wall where they'd started to collect intel onto the case. There was a picture of Lucy Greene, before and after her death, an extensive record of witch cults in the area (Dean's idea—Sam had no clue as to why it was necessary, seeing as Witch Covens were pretty good, at the most part, of keeping under the radar, and this had been weirdly publicised and difficultly explained) and then a map. Where Lucy lived, where she'd died, where she'd come from, where the car had been parked.

Sam scanned it all carefully, wondering if there was something that _solidified_ beyond any doubt that they _were_ hunting a witch. It was always awkward when a witch hunt turns to an Angel or a Spirit case. They weren't going to get any hunting cred on stuffing up a Hunt.

Sam grimaced, remembering the Cupid debacle. Stuffing up a case, _again_.

"We gotta search the car to see if there was a spell in it," Sam said, turning to Dean and running a tired hand over his eyes and through his hair. "We gotta know for sure, dude."

"I'm with you there," Dean agreed, still in that detached tone as he frowned at the computer screen. He nodded to the laptop. "Nothing more on this end, just a few statements released, but nothing we didn't already know."

"We have the names of her friends, don't we?" Sam asked, looking at his watch and frowning when he realised that the day had slipped away to 4 already. "We could check them out."

"Sure," Dean said, hitting the laptops power button and slamming the lid down. He jumped up and grabbed his jacket. "Let's go."

* * *

"Well, of _course_ Mr. Greene would say that," Janice said, miffed, in a high pitched voice that seemed inherent from the mother who had opened the door for them, and a mound of golden curls atop her head that was either a really ill advised perm job or a unlucky tumble of hair. "He thought Lucy was the queen B. I mean, she was, she had a _car_..." Janice trailed off. "But yeah. She wasn't lovely." She drew herself up. "Good at excluding people."

Dean winced at her tone, and there silence brought Janice onto the offensive. "What?" She demanded. "Just because she's dead doesn't immediately make her an angel in life."

Sam cleared his throat and looked mildly uncomfortable with the girls forwardness, so Dean decided to throw his brother a boon and step in. "Right, so, you'd say that Lucy had her fair share of enemies?"

"Ok, whoa, stop right there," Janice said, throwing her hands up in a surrendering motion and whipping her head from brother to brother. "You think someone _killed_ her?"

"Ma'am..." Sam frowned. "We're with the FBI."

She hesitated before shrugging and lowering her hands. "Fair enough, I guess. It's just..." she quieted for a moment. And for the first time since they'd been introduced to her, the second on the list of 'friends' that Mr. Greene had given, she seemed _sad_ that Lucy was gone. Dean wasn't sure if he was relieved or disgusted that it had taken so long.  "Whatever."

And the moment was gone.

"So, people at school who'd wish for her to be not-alive?" Dean pressed, and with a slight tilt of her head and pursed lips, she scrunched up her forehead and thought.

"Well, there's always Gemma," Janice said, then backed out. "No, no. That's not right. I mean, Gemma's a bitch, but she's not _that_ sort of bitch."

"Why don't you write the names down, and call us?" Dean suggested, scribbling his number on a piece of paper and handing it to her. She accepted it, frowned at it, opened her mouth to speak, but Sam beat her to the punch.

"Thanks for all your time today," he gave her a sincere smile as he and Dean both stood out of their chairs. "Really. Without you, things would have been a lot more of a challenge."

"Yeah," Janice said, not standing but giving them a farewell wave all the same. "See you round, boys."

 _Boys_. Dean grimaced.

They made to leave, but Janice called out to them to wait.

"You..." she stopped and, staring fixedly at the floor, started again. "If someone _did_ this to Lucy... you _find_ them, ok? You... ok?"

"We're on it," Sam promised, and Dean could tell that his little brothers heart had inexplicably warmed to the detached, apathetic girl.

The saw themselves out, and the door slammed shut behind them. It had been a full day, and Dean was ready to call it a night and sit back with his brother, watching pay-per-view and eating crappy food, but both Sam and the case had other ideas.

"Think we should see the rest of the people Mr. Greene gave us?" Sam asked. They'd already been through two, and the sun's dissent proved that it was late enough that a drive by would be less than welcome, but neither had been all that helpful. The first girl had been in tears, hardly able to form coherent sentences through her sadness, and Janice had been weird and disconcerting.

"Oh, wait, now?" Dean asked, checking his watch and reading that just under two hours had passed since they'd left the motel room. Another case. Another town. Another monster.

All the bravado that he'd had as a kid had petered out along the way. He wanted nothing more than the strength and the drive to help these people, but it had flickered out. Trials of dust behind his aching feet.

"Sure, why not?"

"Getting a little late, don't you think?" Dean asked as they moved to their respective sides of the car, him automatically going for the drivers and Sam instinctively popping open the passenger's seat.

Sam looked around as if he had just noticed that the world was winding down. As if he'd just noticed that the brilliance of the mid afternoon sun no longer warmed the long, reaching roads of the world.

"Huh," was all he said, and, rolling his eyes, Dean sat down into his seat and slammed the door decisively closed. The only thing more irritating than not having enough energy or drive to do something, was being around someone with enough for both of you.

"Ah, wait," Sam said, picking up his phone and checking his messages as Dean started up the car. "Got a call from the police station. Evidence is probably ready for inspection."

"Right," Dean said, not tightly, not easily, but neutral. Sam flicked him a look of worry but Dean ignored it, and when he started up the car, he mentally mapped out a route to the police station.

As the Impala pulled away from the curb, Dean's phone lit up and trilled with a message.

Dean gave it half a glance. "Check that, would you?"

"Oh, look, our informant came through," Sam said, complying and picking up Dean's phone. He scanned through the message. "Janice wasn't lying when she said that Lucy wasn't an angel during life. If she screwed over all these people, then she definitely has a few motives tagging along after her."

"Ah, Lucy Greene," Dean sighed. "You cunning, pliable, chestnut haired sunfish. What have you done now?"

* * *

"We got it out the back," the Lieutenant showed them, her black hair catching across her face as she turned to look at them. She pushed it back quickly, efficiently, in the same way that she had dealt with everything that day. She'd known who the two boys were as soon as they'd entered into her building, and indeed it was _her_ building. It was her, not the Captain, who seemed to demand the most attention.

"Thanks for this, Lieutenant," Sam said, and Dean rolled his eyes when Sam pronounced it the English 'Lef-tenant'. If the officer had noticed, she didn't say, but the length of the day had probably worn away what little humour she'd had to begin with. If it had been a more reasonable time, Dean had every reason to believe that they would have shared a bemused look.

Ah, kids these days.

"No problem," Akimoto said, unlocking the door and leading them in. She reached over and flicked up the lights, and the boys saw that they were in the Police's car park. Lucy's car, at least, had been kept removed from the rest of the police gear, and sat on a tarp, that was flecked with dirt from the wheels and footprints.

"There wasn't anywhere else you could have kept it?" Dean asked, frowning at the half-hearted barrier and briefly agape door.

She sighed and shook her head. "No. The Captain wanted it on hand. Lucy Greene's family is a pretty big deal in Red Cloud. They donated a heap to the High School and to the upkeep of some of the more historical houses." Akimoto sighed and pushed the stray hairs back again. "He really wants to get the guy. Assuming that there's a guy to be got."

"You don't think it was a murder?" Sam asked, curious.

"Medical anomalies occur every day," The Lieutenant shrugged and started walking over to the car, Sam and Dean following behind. "Alright, Agent Shaw, Deyoung, if I can trust you to take care of whatever it is you have to do, I have to finish up some witness statements and file through paperwor—"

The Lieutenant suddenly frowned, gaze fixed behind their shoulders. Both brothers turned instinctively, seeing a figure freeze just as it was about to reach the door.

The Lieutenant didn't waste any time. She sprung forward and ran passed the brothers, leaping to tackle the perpetrator to the ground before they could rediscover their bearings and make a run for it. Sam and Dean were on her heels, running over and creating a barrier over the door.

"Crap," Sam said, eyes wide. "It's just a kid."

The Lieutenant had the girl on her front, hands around her wrists as she held her in position. She wasn't panting, didn't even look like she'd broken a sweat, but the girl was struggling and taking in lungfuls of air, scared eyes darting from the brothers and back to the woman perched on top of her back.

"Chelsea?" Akimoto asked, frowning, recognising the girl. "Right? Chelsea Reims?"

"I... no, yes, look—"

"Why does she look familiar?" Dean asked Sam in an undertone, who was studying the girl with half squinted eyes and a tilted head.

"I don't—" Sam's eyes widened in realisation. "She was at the diner, earlier today. That waitress, who called us 'Boys', she comforted her."

"And, wait," Dean said suddenly, pulling out his phone and running through the names Janice had texted them (finishing it with her initials and a smiley face emoji). Dean flicked the screen and showed it to Sam. "C. Reims. Chelsea Reims."

"I'm _sorry_ , ok? I'm _sorry, sorry—_ "

"Ms. Reims, breaking and entering federal property is an _extremely_ illegal offence," Akimoto said severely, easing back and allowing Chelsea some breathing room. She had bound her hands with a strip of plastic and pulled her up so that she was sitting by the wall.

"I was just _looking_ ," Chelsea said desperately, looking from the Lieutenant to the brothers, as if she might find some sort of solace there. "Lucy was my friend, and people think that someone _killed_ her. What was I _supposed_ to do? Nobody ever tells me _anything_!"

"You could have _contaminated the evidence_ ," the Lieutenant drew to her full height and looked down at the girl with contempt. The cop didn't raise her voice, or scream, or lash out. She was perfectly poised.

And Damned if Dean wasn't at least a _little_ attracted to her right now.

"I'm _sorry_ Rika," Chelsea said. She shuffled miserably against the wall. "But you gotta understand, she was my _friend_. She was my _friend_ and now she's _dead_ and no one—" She took a deep wheezing breath. "Oh God, Oh _God_."

The Lieutenant finally took a deep breath and bent down to undo the binds around Chelsea's hands. The girl looked up at the boys as she was being freed, curious more than desperate.

"You're the guys I saw in the diner," Chelsea said, almost disquieted rather than interested. She paused for a moment. "The FBI agents."

"Yeah," Sam nodded, looking down at her, face soft, compassionate. Her outburst had obviously affected Dean's younger brother deeply, and Dean would have been lying if he said that it didn't affect him. Lucy had been alive and well only a few hours ago, and now Chelsea had a void where that person would be. A void she tried to fill with fixing the problem.

Dean noticed when Sam shifted slightly closer to him, but he didn't say anything.

"Ok, I'm going to take Chelsea home, can I trust you not to let anymore Vigilante teens in here before I get back?" Akimoto asked them, sighing and helping Chelsea rise to her feet.

"You can count on us," Dean promised with a smile, that the Lieutenant promptly ignored and with a dismissive nod, turned to march Chelsea out of the room.

"Well," Dean clapped his hands together, turning back to the car and sharing a look with Sam. "Let's get back to work. Elphaba ain't gonna catch herself."

* * *

"What's in it?" Dean asked as the Impala pulled through the streets towards the Motel. The Lieutenant had had the misfortune of catching them in the act of pulling out the hex bag from under the driver's seat, but they'd managed to brush it off, distracting her by quoting every movie they knew until she got bored enough to leave them to it.

Sam quickly undid the knotting around the top of the bag and pulled out the contents. His eyebrows rose as he investigated what was inside.

"Dried mint, some rodent's leg bone, ashes and a..." Sam picked up a small white fang. "Canine tooth from some sort of dog, or a fox."

"Or a wolf," Dean offered unhelpfully.

"Yeah, thanks," Sam said distractedly, in that forced sincerity where you _know_ that the other person hasn't been listening.

"What's the problem?" Dean asked, looking over.

"This is pretty serious witchcraft," Sam said finally, still poking around. "See, there's flecks of blood and a little bit of charring on the top of the tooth."

"Great," Dean sighed. "So not only are we after a witch, we're after a super powerful witch."

"I say we head back to the motel and then talk to that Chelsea girl tomorrow," Sam summarised, putting everything back in as it was but not sealing, cupping the makeshift bag in his palm, fingers acting as a barrier around the outside.

"It's a little weird," Dean agreed easily, flicking on the indicator in one smooth move. "That she keeps turning up everywhere."

Sam sighed and sat back into his seat. "Sure is."

* * *

Sam got up first the next morning, as he usually did. Dean would sleep off all the beer he'd managed to down the night before, brain still processing all the information, and Sam would go for a run or a walk. He might pick up some coffee and a newspaper, and he'd take a moment to just _look_ and _feel_ and reflect.

That morning was frigidly cold, and the still, misty morning swayed around the town, enveloping it in a soft, keening cloud. The sky seemed to sink white into the air in front of Sam's eyes, and the roads hazed off as he took off towards the main street.

But something was wrong.

He looked around the motel parking lot and tried to figure out what was bothering him so much. Sure, it wasn't the best Motel they'd been to, but it was far from the worst, and the sign above the driveway was still standing. Besides, there'd been no wind the night before to push it down.

But still, looking around, something was creeping along Sam's spine. Something was eating away at him.

He looked carefully. Once more.

His eyes widened and his breath came short, sharp. His heart yammered in his ribs and he swallowed, harshly.

"Oh _crap_."

* * *

Dean's fist hammered, smashing, on the motel receptions window. He was still in his bed clothes, and his hair was in a spoiled disarray, but he was _furious_. It was all Sam could do to keep out of his way and make sure that his brother didn't shoot the messenger.

"This is fucking _ridiculous_ ," Dean snarled, hammering again, the glass shaking in its frame as he took his anger out on it. "Where _are_ —"

A bleary eyed old woman walked out, wrapping a dressing gown around her shoulders and hobbling to the door. With a click she unlocked it, Dean waiting the whole time breathing heavily out of his nose. Sam didn't think it'd be out of place for steam to come out of his ears, 1950's cartoon style.

"Yes, hello? What seems—"

"My _car_ , lady!" Dean demanded, nostrils flaring as he related the story. "My brother here woke up and found it gone."

"I'm—"

" _Gone_ ," Dean reiterated.

The lady blinked in surprise, and patted herself on the collar bone, holding the arm over her chest. "I'm afraid I—"

" _Gone_!" Dean snapped. "Someone took it while we were sleeping."

" _Sir_ ," the lady said firmly. "I don't know where your car is. Have you taken it up with the police?"

"Have I..." Dean started. "The _police_?" He was nearly livid, and the skin of his face was melting into a beet red.

"Ok, ok, Dean, chill," Sam placed a hand on his chest and moved him out of the way, smiling apologetically at the lady and switching spots with his brother so that he was facing the Motel Owner. "Sorry about waking you, but the car is very important to us. Do you have an CCTV footage over the area?"

"I..." The woman, as if struck by a thought, ran into the back of the shop. As soon as she'd left, Sam turned to Dean, who'd taken to scuffing his foot against the floor in irritation.

"Dude, seriously?" Sam demanded. "You know _she_ didn't take it, right?"

"Well, how the Hell do you know that for sure?" Dean demanded, ceasing kicking and staring at Sam with wide, honesty eyes.

"You're being ridiculous."

"Yeah? Well _you're_ being ridiculous."

There was a shuffling, a loud crack and fall of something important, and after a loud huff, the lady's footsteps sounded out again. Dean looked like he was grinding his teeth, and Sam didn't envy the guy who had stolen it. Not that Sam would be treating him kindly either.

That car was their _home_ , their childhood. And, it had an arsenal better fitted for the US army than a pair of FBI agents.

When the woman came around, she had an apologetic look on her face. "I know that we... _did_. But the guy to come and fix them—"

"Right." Dean snapped. "Thanks."

He span on his heel and stomped off back to their room. Sam spared an extra minute to shoot her a tight smile in thanks and then headed off after his brother, quickening his steps to reach and then match Dean's furious pace.

"I can't _believe_ this, I can't—"

"Dean, dude, calm down," Sam ordered, placing a hand across his brothers chest. Dean promptly shoved it off, turning and glaring at Sam, but at least the younger Winchester had managed to capture his attention even if only for a moment. "Getting angry isn't going to help anything."

"Like hell it isn't," Dean informed him, giving him a look and then turning on his heel, marching off back to the motel.

Sam stopped for a moment, sighed and trudged after Dean, catching the door before his brother could slam it shut. Sam took it upon himself to shut the door softly.

Dean was pacing, forgoing getting properly dressed for shoving on a jacket and running a hand through his hair a few times. "Mileage is bad, so they'll have to have gotten gas. Were we low?"

"I can't remember," Sam admitted.

Dean swore and swung out, striking the table and knocking the 'No Smoking' sign to its side.

"Dean, seriously, dude, you gotta calm down so you can think straight," Sam said, calm, dependable, a little desperate. Dean was _furious_. There was something utterly _sacred_ about that impala. If someone had taken it, Sam had no doubts that Dean would go to the end of the earth to get it back."Do _you_ remember when we got gas last?"

"I...no?" Dean wondered, but he took a breath an focused his anger onto blunt determination. Lashing out wasn't going to help him. And when Dean was _really_ angry, there was a one set mind about him. Sam had only seen it a few times, that terrifying clarity. Dean closed his eyes, gathered himself, and when they opened again, they were intent, bright. "Yes. I remember. We hadn't gotten any since the last time we restocked in Lawrence."

"When was that?" Sam wondered, casting his mind back to the past few weeks and wondering how many times they'd had to make trips after coming back from Claire Novak.

"5, 6 days ago," Dean remembered. "But we hadn't driven much..."

"It's a start," Sam promised, and he stood to meet Dean. "Hey, Dean, we'll find her, ok?"

There was a sharp rap on the door, and both brothers turned to the sound.

Sam turned to Dean and tilted his head, and Dean nodded, face set in its frown as he moved over to the curtain covering the window, and Sam moved to the door.

Whatever Dean saw was enough to cause confusion, and anything to startle him in the dead set phase he was in was enough to warrant worry.

"Hello?" Sam called through the door, and he stilled when the voice from behind the door answered. It was startling familiar as well as being utterly foreign. He'd never heard her voice before, of that he was sure, but it sparked _something_ inside of him, something old and worn and loved.

"Sam? Dean? Uh...look. We, um." She paused and Sam could almost hear her struggling with what to say. "Something has happened."

Sam swung the door open and looked across to see a very tall black woman with hair back in a severe ponytail. She was gorgeous, with large, doe eyes and a slender, strong figure. Dressed all in black, with leather pants and a white shirt under a black leather jacket.

Sam and her locked eyes, and before he could say anything, she pulled out a small bag.

Sam swallowed when he recognised it, and Dean stilled beside his shoulder when he saw it as well.

"Hex Bag," Sam stated. He looked at her. "What happened? Where did you find this?"

"It was..." she grimaced. "There ain't no nice way to say this one... _inside_ me."

"Wait—"

"Dean, Sam," she said, and again her tone washed over Sam with something deliciously motherly and comforting. Like the crunch of autumn leaves and the hum of bees over a garden of flowers. Sam could just sit and listen to her speak forever, just _look_ at her. Because her beauty was familiar, and Sam thought he knew what was going on before she said it. "I was...I'm human."

"Right," Dean agreed, not understanding. "Good for you."

"No, I..." her eyes brightened with an idea and she tugged on the collar of her top to show them a tattoo along her collar bone. "I'm the Impala."

Sam felt himself dizzying as he gazed at, what he'd first thought as a tattoo could now see was knife marks marring into a scar. But she didn't seem pained by it, and Sam couldn't help his wonder at how it was marked into her skin. How it had stayed with her.

S.W. and D.W., in all its glory, on the woman who had once been their car.

"Wait," Dean demanded. He glared up at her. " _What_?"

"Dean," Sam said, gazing at her too. "The Hex, the witch..."

"She hexed me," the Impala finished grimly. She returned the hex bag to her pocket and stuck both hands into the sides of her jacket. The mist was still eating at the town, but the cold was still as crisp as ever. "Look, I'm not all that used to not being immune to cold. You gonna let me in or what?"

"Right," Sam apologised, standing to the side and allowing her to step into the motel room.

Immediately she wrinkled up her nose. "Ugh."

"A decent summary," Dean agreed, hesitant but awestruck. "Motel rooms are pretty much the 'Hobgoblins' of the hospitality world."

"Nice," the Impala grinned, and Sam saw Dean fall a little more in love with his car.

"Alright, sure, but uh, a few tests before we know that you're the real deal, right?" Dean pushed, watching her as she sat down at the table.

She blinked in bemusement but didn't seem put off. "Sure. Whatever. Throw it at me."

"Where do we currently live?" Sam jumped in first, sitting down on the end of his bed, watching her, enraptured.

"Men of Letters bunker, near Lebanon, Kansas," she answered easily. "Bitch on the upholstery, but it'll do. What next?"

"Most played album," Dean stated, watching her for hesitation, and also genuinely curious.

"Mix Tape," the Impala corrected, looking offended that they'd ask such easy questions. "Contains Blue Swede, Metallica, AC/DC and REO Speedwagon." She titled her head. "Among others."

"You, Sam, Trickster," Dean spieled off, and Sam shot him a glare, reddening with embarrassment. "What have the three got in common?"

"The Trickster," she waved her hand to give the impression of magic. "Uh, _charmed_ Sam into..." She grimaced. "There's never a nice way to say anything. What is it with innuendos these days?"

"I think we got the gist," Sam assured her, shooting Dean another disgruntled look. He had to wonder when it was that Dean had first remembered that. Sam would place a lot of very real money on the thought occurring to his always immature brother in the first few moments after meeting their humanised car.

"Right," the Impala said, grinning again.

Silence fell, and Dean just stared at the Impala, who stared curiously back.

Sam and Dean both stood simultaneously, and together uttered, "I need a coffee."

* * *

"So, let's go over this again, because it makes no sense," Sam stated, and Dean rolled his eyes over the waffles he'd ordered. The Impala, seated next to Dean, had wrinkled her nose at everything on the menu, but had ordered a cup of coffee and a fruit salad, same as Sam, anyway.

"Let's," the Impala agreed, eyes still fixed upon the mound of chopped apple and pear. She made a face of revulsion and pushed it away. "I don't understand how you do it. This food looks _disgusting_. You chew on it, wet it with your saliva, squish it against your tongue and then force it down a tube so that it can get processed in your inner _organs_?"

"Yeah," Dean said, easy, swallowing another mouthful of waffle. Sam was more affected, grimacing and pushing the plate away from himself.

"Thanks," the younger Winchester stated, and the Impala blinked meekly at him.

"Sorry," she said.

"You shove crap from deep inside the earth into the side of your ass," Dean reminded her. He cut himself another slice and topped it off with bacon. "Anything sounds gross when you force it to sound gross." He pushed the mouthful in and both Sam and the Impala winced.

"Right," Sam blinked. He shook his head and pushed his hair back around his ears. "Now, that Hex Bag, turned you human. Why?"

"Who knows?" the Impala sighed, leaning back and nursing the coffee mug in her hands. Her white shirt had a streak of grime from a piece of apple that had fallen down her front, but other than that, she was perfect still. Sam noticed with a pang that around her wrist was a bracelet of tiny army men, each connected to the other with outreaching arms.

Studying her more closely, Sam could see that there were other aspects that he'd missed as well. Her earrings were two sawed off's, and the band around the top of her left ear looked suspiciously like a silver bullet. Then on her finger was a simple band, etched with tiny words that Sam suspected was a full exorcism too small to be read. On the bottom side of her wrist was a tattoo (a real one) of a devils trap.

"Maybe the Impala is going to go crazy and try to kill us," Dean suggested, casting her a side eye, but not worried enough to slow down on demolishing his breakfast.

"Maybe," the Impala shrugged, and of the three, Sam felt like he was the only one appropriately worried about that possibility. Dean was just sitting, eating breakfast and drinking coffee. The Impala was studying her ring and absently picking at the fabric on the cuff of her jacket.

"Right," Sam agreed, wondering how on earth Fate had dealt them _this_ curve ball. "But say that the Impala doesn't go insane—"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," the Impala glanced up.

"No problem," Sam answered, without missing a beat. His fruit salad sat in front of him, mostly untouched. He'd come for the coffee, really, and the whole debacle with the car hadn't given him much of an appetite. Not that he'd really wanted to eat much recently anyway. "But we can assume that they meant to do something, right?"

"Right," Dean agreed slowly. "But...what does this _do_ exactly?"

"We lost all our weaponry," Sam pointed out. "Could have thought that that would deal us a blow."

"How many cars has this witch turned human?" Dean wondered, unconvinced. "I mean, how could she know that the weapons wouldn't all just fall out?"

"Well, maybe she did try it on a test subject first," Sam shrugged. "Whatever. Point is, she would have had to have a motive to try and attack us in the first place."

"That does make sense," the Impala agreed, eager to be a part in the conversation. She offered a thumbs up when both brothers paused to look at her.

"Ok," Sam allowed, clearing his throat. "So that means, whoever the witch is, they _knew_ that we were investigating the case."

"We've been here, what, a day?" Dean asked, tired. "How many witches did we have a chance to meet?"

"Well, witches are normally women, right?" Sam asked, pulling out a piece of paper and pen and smoothed out the folds against the table. "So—" he wrote down 'Chelsea Reims' "—if we can just isolate the woman most likely—" Lieutenant Akimoto' "—to be the witch—" pausing slightly before writing down 'Janice Foreman' "—then we can run the usual tests and go down the list."

"Well, great, that shouldn't take more than a few minutes," Dean deadpanned.

"We'll go see Chelsea first," Sam suggested, pointing to the girls name. "We meant to speak to her anyway about Lucy. She's as likely of a choice as any."

"It _might_ be a dude," Dean pointed out. "And if it is, then we got ourselves a much longer list."

"Not really," Sam frowned. "All we have is the police Captain—" 'Captain Todd' "—and Lucy's Dad—" 'Mr. Greene'.

Dean looked down at the list of names and sighed. "Witches, man."

"Don't worry," the Impala shuddered, finally able to add to the conversation. "I feel that."

"Really?" Sam asked, curious. "Run in with Witches before?"

"Only every time _you_ have, Samuel," the Impala reprimanded, and Sam felt suddenly five years old, scolded for some unforgivable misgiving.

It was hard to remember that the impala was made over 40 years ago with the care and dedication that Dean spent making sure that she was running perfectly, but she _was_ an old car. And she _had_ seen her fair share of witches and monsters.

"Right, well, if we're going now," Dean said, the rest of his sentence implied as he squeezed passed the Impala and into the walkway, heading off to the men's room.

Then it was just Sam and the Impala in the shop.

"Hey, Sam," the Impala said softly, and Sam looked up to her. The loss of almost all roughness to her voice made it even more homely, even more that sweet hum of an engine running beneath his ear as he tried to go to sleep. All wrapped up in a blanket they'd stolen from a Motel, cheek pressed up against Dean's shoulder, smiling through his dreams as his family, all the people he had on the whole earth, moved together across the country.

"Hi," Sam replied insufficiently, licking his lips and looking down to his uneaten breakfast.

"I don't know what's going to happen now," she said. She seemed almost flippant about it, but Sam could tell that she was worried. About them. "And I don't know how much time either of us have, but I want you to know something."

Sam looked up, curious. Of all the people she would have had a heart to heart with, he assumed it would have been Dean. Dean had cared for her, cleaned her, rebuilt her. He didn't say anything, and she took that as encouragement to keep going.

"I have been many things in my lifetime," the Impala spoke easily, her doe eyes still bright and kind, her softness unmistakable. There was so much toughness about the impala, so many sharp lines that the softness of the leather or the glossiness of the paint could be overlooked. First and foremost she was a wanderer, like them. First and foremost, she was the journey. "But I have never loved protecting you and your brother like I have the other things."

"I—"

"Your family gave me purpose," the Impala told him earnestly. "You and Dean, you made me the most important car in the universe. You cared for me."

Sam watched her in a sort of trapped awe. Of all the things he thought a car would be sentimental about, that had never really triggered. "Of course we did. You always protected us."

"Maybe," the Impala allowed. "But you and Dean shaped me. Without you I would be indistinctive." She smiled at him, although she looked sad. And Sam wondered if she would outlive them, and thinking carefully, he realised with a dull thud that she would. Of course she would. "So, I wanted to thank you. And you especially, Sam." She smiled again, and the smile felt secret. Felt like a gift. "Because you don't hear it enough."

Sam distracted himself by staring at the fruit in front of him while he waited for his throat to stop thickening.

"Well, uh, yeah," the Impala barked an awkward laugh and cupped her hands around her cooled mug. "Yeah, that's all I really wanna say."

"Thanks," Sam managed, looking up at her so she knew he meant it. Meeting her smile with one of his own. This car had helped him save the world, and he was _grateful_.

* * *

"I'm quite worried about her," Mrs. Reims told the Winchesters, their knees aching from all the walking they'd had to do without a car as they stood on the front steps of the Reims household. Upon inquiring, Dean and Sam had found out that Chelsea had left early that morning to go on a walk. "She seemed quite upset."

"Could it have something to do with Lucy dying?" Sam asked, with Dean beside him wondering and hoping against Chelsea lashing out with her witch powers.

"Maybe, probably," her mother admitted. She gave them worried, terse smiles. "You'll find her, won't you?"

"Of course we will," Sam promised, and Dean nodded his affirmation. The Impala had hung back, her jacket and leather pants a little out of the norm for a police officer, but she was listening. That much Dean could tell. She was interested. It must have been such an odd existence for her, seeing them during all the in-betweens.

Wrecked with nerves, bleeding and dying, alone, drunk, tired, stressed. And then never would she find out the cause or the resolution. Never would she find out exactly _why_ things panned out the way that they did.

"Mom, what's going on?" a voice came from behind the door and all three of them turned to look to greet the newcomer.

"Ah, yes, Genevieve," Mrs. Reims called the girl over and she hesitantly walked up to the door. Mrs. Reims turned back to the Winchester brothers, any worry over her daughter forgotten as they were all introduced. "Gen, these lovely men are Agents Shaw and Deyoung and they're investigating the murder of Lucy Greene, you know, the girl who Chelsea played with sometimes."

Dean decided then that he really didn't like Mrs. Reims.

Dean suddenly looked to Genevieve with a smile. "Hello, Ms. Reims. Would you say that you know Chelsea very well?"

"Reasonably," Gen crossed her arms over her chest, self conscious and defensive. Den could feel Sam's curiosity rolling off him in waves next to him, but he inwardly promised Sam that everything would clear up soon. "Why?"

"Well, I was just wondering where _you_ think she would have gone?"

"Oh, probably down to the art rooms in the school," Gen gave a tight smile and gestured in the general vicinity of the high school. "She goes down there to paint and stuff."

"Thanks," Sam told her, looking like he was ready to wrap it up for Dean, but Dean needed to ask just one more question.

"And, what do you know about Janice Foreman?" Dean provoked, looking at her innocently.

He suspected that she didn't like her, but that didn't account for the blind hatred that spilled across her features before she managed to get them in check. She turned completely neutral before answering. "Despise her. Why?"

"What is the relationship between her and Chelsea?" Dean pushed, watching Gen's face, wondering if she would snap again, if all the self control and apathy that she had carried when she'd arrived would slink off again, leaving her bare-cheeked and savage.

"She hated Chelsea, because Lucy liked Chelsea and Lucy hated Janice," Gen shrugged. She'd returned to her defensive apathetic state, but no matter what, Dean knew that it was just a facade.

"Mr. Greene seemed to think that Janice and Lucy were pretty close," Sam told her.

"Well, yeah, he would," Gen said, looking close to snapping again. "He's an _idiot_."

"Genevieve!" Mrs. Reims reprimanded, and Dean thought she probably came in at that point to remind them all that she was still there.

"Yes?"

"We should go," Sam muttered to Dean, who nodded and nodding their goodbyes, they headed off down the path to the Impala, who was lounging against a Camry. The sight was too hilarious to pass up for a photo opportunity, but Dean had to force himself to ignore the urge to grab his phone and click a picture.

"Where are we dr—going?" the Impala asked, walking up to them innocently like she hadn't been hearing every second word that had been carried down through the stillness of the air.

"High School," Sam supplied to her easily. "Not too far to walk."

"Ugh," the Impala shivered and crossed her arms. "I really wish I was a car right now."

"Walking, right?" Dean agreed, setting off next to Sam, leaving room on the walkway for her to fill. "I mean, seriously! What do we do if there's an emergency and we need to get to somewhere immediately?"

"Steal a car," Sam said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh, right, of course," Dean deadpanned, giving his little brother a look, who had the decency to look sheepish and turn his sight to the ground.

* * *

All in all, the walk from the Reims household to the local High School was about 15 minutes, which wasn't as bad as Sam had been expecting. There was always something to be said for low expectations.

"Well, we're here," Dean said, faintly nauseous as he led them up the steps to the front entrance. There was a woman in the reception despite it being a Sunday, and the three of them walked up to her.

Sam dug into his pocket and flashed his FBI badge as soon as she looked up and seemed suspicious of them. "Hey, ma'am, we're here to see Chelsea Reims. Has she passed through here?"

"Uh, Chelsea Reims?" the receptionist asked, tilting her head and running a finger down a list of students. She brightened and nodded. "Yes. Chelsea, checked in to use the art rooms. Said that she had an assignment due."

"Where are the art rooms?" The Impala asked for them, moving forward between the brothers, almost more invested into the case than they were.

* * *

The Art rooms were creepier than the ones that Sam remembered from his years of high school. He'd never taken art, but in his Junior year, he'd dated an artist. She'd been cool, but like all his teenage girlfriends, she didn't last very long. A few weeks passed and Dean and John had come to pick him up and move him on, and that had been the end of that.

The Impala voice his displeasure with a disgusted 'ugh' and Dean had reached out as soon as they'd all gotten into the room to find the light switch.

As soon as the sound of the click occurred without consequence, everyone stopped.

Still in darkness, the three looked at each other.

"Sam, left room," Dean ordered, voice hoarse in how low he was keeping it. "Impala, with me. We'll take right."

Sam nodded his understand and pulled the Taurus out of the waist band of his jeans. Him and Dean always wanting constant access to their two guns had finally paid off with losing the rest of their arsenal with the witches spell. At least they had _something_ to hold on to.

Sam edged around the corner, worried he was going to see Chelsea by an altar, by a small flame, mixing and chanting over a sticky dark substance that could have only been blood—

Sam stopped in his tracks when he saw what really waited for him around the corner. He closed his eyes and let out a breath of air.

"Dean," he called, and from the other side of the basement he heard a table slam as Dean raced to get to him.

 The stench of paint and disinfectant that had stained over anything else crucial seemed to part for a second, and for that breadth of a moment, all Sam could smell was rusting iron, and all he could see where the wide, terrified eyes of Chelsea Reims lying spreadeagled over the table, blood pooling and cooling beneath her.

Dean and the Impala caught Sam out of the reverie. Dean's hand came to rest on Sam's shoulder and he shook himself back into the business aspect of what they did.

"Chelsea isn't the Witch," Dean stated, and the Impala drew back, jaw tight, throat working as it tightened.

"What the _hell_ ," she stated, staring at the girl with anger in her eyes. "What _the hell_?"

"We need to stop her," Sam stated calmly, staring again at the eyes of the girl, staring again to the body that had so _recently_ been full of life. "This isn't..." he worked his jaw and didn't attempt to say anything more.

Dean moved forward and picked up an arm. He tightened his jaw and looked back at them. "Still warm. I'd say time of death, 10, 15 minutes ago."

Sam felt sick. That had been while they were talking to Chelsea's mother, or a little after. Chelsea had been being killed and they'd all been standing around deliberating. It would have taken almost no time at all to drive. If they'd had the impala...

No. Sam couldn't think like that. He needed to keep his head sharply focused forward. There was no use in deliberating over things that had already come to pass. Now he needed to be preventative. Take what he'd learnt and use it again and again until he'd done it. Until he'd finished.

A girl was dead, yes. But the stakes were always high.

"The sister," the Impala said suddenly, voice low. She was looking away from the body, but she didn't seemed all that unnerved by it. She was a car, and she was a strong car. Sam was more surprised that he'd thought she'd be nervous, like a human, at the sight of the bloodied body.

There was something he hadn't directly entertained since she'd arrived at their doorstep. That she wasn't human. She was a car and a spell.

"Genevieve," Sam thought back. She had hated Janice, sure. But from what he could tell, Janice was a pretty hateable person. If anyone had a right to hate her, it was Chelsea.

But none of that fit, because if killing Lucy was supposed to hurt Janice, then why wouldn't she choose someone who Chelsea didn't like? Or at least someone she wasn't close to. To Sam, it seemed like Chelsea was a lot more cut up about Lucy than Janice was.

"You think that they were closer than she let on," Dean stated, and the Impala nodded her head quickly.

"But Chelsea's dead now," Dean pointed out. Chelsea was bleeding right near them, torn apart from the inside out.

"She is," the Impala nodded. She took a measured look at each of them. "I think that Genevieve mixed up the bags."

"How so?" Sam frowned.

"I haven't gone rogue, have I?" the Impala demanded. "In fact, all I've done is help you, give you emotional support and tagged along on your adventure. Why would she give you me? Why would she give you a favour? You were investigating her, you were a threat to her. If you had found her, you would have killed her, so she was just returning the favour."

"The Protector," Sam spelled out, and Dean's eyes widened with understanding.

"You think that Gen was just trying to protect her sister?" Dean asked.

The Impala looked grim. "I think that there's a very good chance that Genevieve knew that Chelsea came down her when she was feeling most vulnerable. That she came down here when she most needed protecting."

"And she mixed up the Hex Bags," Sam said, eyes turning to his brother, grim with realisation. Everything was such a _mess_.

All three fell silent, and Dean closed his eyes and ran a hand over the front of his face.

His final comment seemed to summarise the situation pretty well. "Oh, Jeez."

* * *

It was almost a little too easy to steal a student's car. Embarrassingly easy. On the third try, the car wasn't even locked. On the sixth, it was a car that Dean knew how to hotwire. All three of them climbed in quickly and Dean started up the engine, tearing through the parking lot and out the drive way.

The drive didn't even give them enough time to plan what they were going to do next. Would they storm the Reims household, find Genevieve and hold her to gun point? Would they knock on the door, ask for the eldest and carefully explain everything that had happened?

There was no time for thought. Only for action.

"Go," Dean said, as the car slammed into park in front of the Reims household. The Impala moved first up the stairs, powerful legs pumping up and kicking the door down.

The three spilled into the hallway and from the kitchen they heard something break and somebody screaming. Sam was willing to bet that that was Mrs. Reims, so when they came to the stairs, where one led to the basement and the other up to the second floor, they paused.

"Sam, you take the Impala up, I'll go down," Dean spelt out, and sparing a glance back to his brother, he moved down into the basement.

Sam nodded to the Impala and they made their way, running, up the stairs.

"Which room?" the Impala asked, not even slightly out of breath as they made it to the landing.

"This one," Sam chose at random, pulling it open and then slamming it closed when he saw that it was empty. He turned to tell the Impala to follow his lead, but she already was. She slammed closed her first door just as Sam had turned back around and was focusing on his second.

He moved forward to swing it outward, and then his eyes widened and a yell caught in his throat.

A furious, teeth barring Genevieve had been waiting behind, and with a pained grunt she pricked the tip of one of her fingers with a pin. Sam clutched his arm and fell in absolute _agony_ to the ground as fizzling, curdling chunks of nail shaped acid seeped through his arm.

"What are you doing here?" She hissed, demanding, crouching next to him. "Why didn't you stay with my sister?"

"You know why," Sam managed, looking up at her, the pain receding enough that he could see. "You killed her."

Genevieve screwed up her face. "No I _didn't_!"

"Why'd you kill Lucy, Gen?" Sam demanded, panting, voice barely able to get the words out as he looked up at her. She glowered down at him and a fresh wave of agony coursed through his veins. "She was Chelsea's friend. Why'd you do it?"

"It wasn't _for her_ ," Gen said, hollowly, skin paling as she went into shock.

"Wasn't for who?" Sam looked up at her, finally feeling that aching relief of the pain slowly abating. He drew himself up into sitting position and looked at the young witch without pity. "Wasn't for Chelsea or Lucy, Genevieve?"

"Lucy, Chelsea," she whispered, horror of her own actions forcing her words to slip up, to quieten. Her mistakes stealing her voice from under her feet. "Both."

"Who was Lucy's Hex Bag meant for?" Sam asked her, sitting up further and propping himself against the wall.

"Janice," Gen's eyes welled up with tears and her shaking hands clasped the side of her head. "I thought..." Her fingers dug into her hair. "I thought that it was _Janice's car_."

"You mixed the Hex Bags up," Sam told her, voice barely loud enough for her to hear. Through the pain, Sam could only reflect on how disgustingly _messy_ all of this was.

"No," she moaned, swaying slightly and staring hard at the ground.

"You gave us the protective charm, and you killed her," Sam finished desperately, finding his breath but not the volume to give his words strength.

" _No_."

"You gave her the killing Hex Bag, Genevieve," Sam said, and this time when it came out, it was low out of respect. Everything Genevieve had done had been to protect her sister, and everything had failed.

Who was Sam to judge her on that?

Sam finally had the sense of mind to wonder where the Impala was. He assumed she'd run off to get Dean, and knew that they'd have to be back any minute.

"My brother is coming back soon," Sam told her. "We can help you. Let us help you."

"You..."

"Genevieve, please," Sam begged her, shuffling more comfortably against the wall, staring at her hopefully, fearfully. "We _can help you_."

"I don't..." she swallowed. "I can't. I killed her. I _killed_ her. She's _dead_!"

"So use that as a reason to make the world better," Sam told her, fierce, with _faith_ in her. "You can _do_ it Genevieve, this isn't the end for you."

She gave him a look. A sad, lost look. There was no hope in her eyes, no happiness, no fear. Nothing for Sam to grapple with. Just that apathy that they'd assumed was a mask.

But maybe that's all she was on the inside. A void without anything, without desperation or love or fear or hope. Maybe witchcraft had been the only way to fill that gap.

Whatever it was, it shuddered now. Unbreakable, immovable. Sam realised as soon as Genevieve did that there was no going back from this. There was no forgiveness. Two innocent girls were dead and everyone else was safe, and she had made such a mess of it. She had ruined so many perfect, pretty things.

"Please," Sam begged her. "You don't need to. You don't _have_ to. There's a choice here. There's always a choice."

Gen didn't even react to his words. She just pricked her finger, and sent him back into the screaming pain, and left him clenching rigid into the ground. With two precise steps she moved to the desk draws. And from the second down, she selected a series of herbs. They could all do it in a second, but she wanted it now. She wanted it _before_. _She_ had done this. _She_ had. Chelsea was dead. Lucy was dead.

Gen shoved all the poisons in at once and, after swaying, fell to the floor.

"Sammy! Sam!" Dean skidded next to his little brother on the floor and cradled Sam across his lap as Sam shuddered through the pain that Gen had inflicted onto him.

"Sam?" the Impala asked, crouching down next to the brothers and reaching a hand along Sam's side.

"Sammy? You with me? Come on little brother," Dean ordered, placing a hand on the side of Sam's face so that when he did wake, he'd have his older brother to anchor onto. "Death said..." Dean swallowed. "Come _on_ Sammy!"

"Dean," the Impala said lightly, pulling back and sitting carefully against the wall. But Dean ignored her, focusing on Sam, who seemed nearly coherent, his shudders closing down quickly, his eyes brightening and clearing even as Dean watched.

Dean let out a sigh of relief as his brother woke up fully. But Sam didn't have time to share in the joys of not being dead. As soon as he had enough strength, he wrenched himself from Dean's grip and looked across at Genevieve, dead and cooling on her bedroom floor.

The world seemed to stop. Suddenly. Utterly pause for just a moment.

The two Reims sisters were dead. Lucy Greene's murderess had killed herself. Sam sagged against Dean as he tried to process it. He looked up to the ceiling and closed his eyes, swallowing and trying to think and not think at the same time. He sorted his brain into nothing and then still addressed every single one of the niggling thoughts.

"Uh, guys?" the Impala gave a sudden desperate call for help and both the brothers turned to watch her. Both watched, awestruck, as her fingers melted into tiny drops of starlight that melted off into the air.

"Why I came out of that so quickly," Sam offered, watching with tired eyes as their friend was taken apart, piece by piece. "When the Witch dies, so does all her spells."

The Impala relaxed into the ground hearing that, extending her long legs across the doorway, her head resting back against the wall as her arms wisped into thousands of tiny fireflies. They lifted off from her toes.

Dean wanted to say something profound. Something that would live on forever in all their minds. The farewell of all farewells.

But he couldn't think of anything. Sam was still leaning on him, and behind them, a Witch had just committed suicide because she'd killed her sister. The moment was off, but the Impala didn't seem to mind.

"I'll be seeing you, boys," she told them, as the lights flickered away up to her knees. She was watching the lights, mesmerised. Sam and Dean were struck as well, eyes tingling with nostalgia as they watched her drift off to become their car once more.

"I just..." Dean tried, but still nothing came. He was no words smith, Hell, he was more a Campbell than his father's men of Letters lineage, but he'd wanted this to be special. The Impala had carried them their whole lives. Their constant companion. "I want to thank you."

The Impala turned her head, smiled, and those large doe eyes twinkled. Before she could open her mouth to respond, the lights all flickered off, the parts of her soul that had been transferred now flickered as a constellation through the sky.

The silence and stillness after that was almost unbearable, but Dean didn't move. Sam was still breathing heavily next to him, face pale, blood seeping from his nose.

"I kind of feel like we didn't win this one, Sammy," Dean said, in the silence of the aftermath, staring at the wall.

Sam shifted against him, head moving from elbow to shoulder, his affection playing out like it always did whenever he was upset or in pain. "I know."

Dean didn't want to push Sam, but they had to go. Again. Clear out of town. Again. Pack their bags and leave their deposit.

"The world sort of sucks," Dean commented, and Sam's low laugh was all he needed. Sam's throaty chuckle against his brothers arm as they sat side by side.

"I know."

Dean paused, and then, "Genevieve wasn't your fault, Sam."

Sam didn't speak for just  a bit, his heart picking up, his breathing labouring. Dean was worried he'd just ignore it. Let it fester within him.

 _What's one more nightmare_? Dean swallowed bitterly. What a load of bullshit.

"I know."


	14. Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas helps the Winchesters solve a series of brutal murders in Amarillo Texas.

"No, no, I'll hold," Stan said amicably, smiling despite being over the phone, and nodding to Rachel, who gave him a sympathetic look.

The woman on the other end of the line thanked him, and dreamy hold music sounded out of the receiver. Stan sighed and pushed it into the holder, pressing for it to process as speaker, the music drifting over the office.

"On Hold again?" Rachel winced sympathetically and looked up from her computer, fingers balancing idly on the keys.

"Always," Stan rolled his eyes. "I mean, sure, Hold is a necessary evil for today's corporate world... but _God_ is it _evil_."

"Talk like that is the reason you never get laid," Rachel informed him, returning to her computer, but she was still smiling to herself. "'Hold is a necessary evil'... why don't you just suck Josh-the-robot's dick while you're at it?"

"Good idea," Stan told her. "Might get me a bit extra bonus at the end of this financial year."

Rachel cracked a smile and Stan grinned at her, laughing at his own joke.

"You are _so_ lame."

"Tell me about it," Stan said seriously. "It's really getting in the way of my womanizing vibe."

"Womanizing vibe," Rachel repeated, giving him an eyebrow and pausing from her work for a second.

He nodded seriously. " _Womanizing_."

"Womanizing," Rachel state again, squinting and giving him a once over. She tilted her head an pursed her lips.

"Is there an echo in here?"

" _You_ saying 'womanizing' in the context to yourself warrants repeating about a hundred times," Rachel told him, grinning at her own joke, and Stan's heart beat painfully in his chest as he watched her shake her head an return to her work, the taste of her laughter on the back of her throat.

"Thanks, Rach," Stan said, but he couldn't help the small, fond smile and the way his eyes lingered on her, on the hand that brush the side of her cheek, wispy hair catching at the tips of her fingers as she pushed it behind her ear.

" _Sir_?" the tinny voice from his phone caught his attention, and in the spirit of not irritating his co-workers, Rachel especially who had perked up and given him a look as the call had been picked up.

"Yeah, hi," Stan pulled up his phone and held it by his ear, looking away from Rachel and trying his best to forget, as always, that she was _just there_. That she was so close, but so out of reach.

"So, I was just calling on the matter of your application for the division of a series of stocks in the company? Wrong section? No, no, that's fine."

Rachel shot him another sympathetic look.

"Sure, I'll hold."

* * *

Sam shifted through the bags that Dean had brought back from the shop and frowned as he pushed back the mushrooms and the pasta.

"Dean!"

His brother emerged into the room a few seconds later, sliding slightly as he stopped running, gliding around the corner. He was wearing his pyjamas, even though it was only 5. Sam would have made fun of him for it, if he weren't tempted to put his on as well. Having a permanent residence did have its benefits. And being comfortable and warm for most hours of the day was one of them.

Less impromptu Blue Swede sing-along's though, which Sam wasn't really all that cut up about.

"Yo," his brother greeted, unruffled and relaxed. For the first few months of finding the bunker, every squeak and every rustle had been an enemy, Sam had blinked into the darkness of his rooms. There were no windows, no way to know what the world outside was doing. Whenever Sam had thought about it, it was stifling. Like the earth was crushing around them, pushing and begging to come in. But his trust in the place had grown, and though his room was bare compared to Dean, it was more home than anything. Except, of course, the Impala.

Which was a touchy subject. Now that the car had once been a person.

"Did you buy the cheese?" Sam looked at his brother, who made a face and shrugged.

"Maybe? Was it on the list?"

Sam made a small noise of frustration. "The list that I told _you_ to write?"

"Yeah."

Sam gave his brother a steady stare. "You didn't buy it, did you?"

Dean shrugged and made an unapologetic face. "Sorry, little bro. Must have slipped my mind."

"Well, it's not me that's gonna miss out on a toasted cheese sandwich every morning."

Dean's face cracked, crestfallen. "Oh, man."

Sam rustled through the papers again. He scowled and turned to Dean. "Seriously? Bread? _Bread_? Of all the food you had to buy, you forget _bread_?"

Dean turned away, over his lack of pre-breakfast (his words) sandwiches and rolling his eyes. "Whatever. I have flour, and yeast somewhere I think. I'll just _make_ some."

Sam called after his retreating brothers back. "You remember _yeast_ over _bread_?"

"I said that we already had yeast, not that I bought it!" Dean called back.

Sam scrunched up his face in distaste, not remembering ever going out of his way to buy ingredients for bread, and worrying that whatever it was that Dean had found being over 50 years old. But then again, Dean was always more domestic than he let on. And a much better chef. So, there was that.

Sam jerked to the sound of the door being knocked, and leaving the rest of the groceries in its bag, ran up the steps to the door to the bunker. He peered out the peep hole and opened the door, smiling at the newcomer.

"Hello, Sam," Cas announced himself, his low gravelly voice a welcome surprise as Sam met his friend eye to eye.

"Cas," Sam stated, a little breathless, but welcoming. "Hey, buddy. Haven't seen you in a while. How's heaven?"

"Heaven is good," Cas said, and he said it like he meant it. He had that little smile, the one that ticked up the sides of his vessels mouth and turned his eyes soft and still.

Sam nodded, matching his smile. "Good." He stood back. "Want to come in?"

Cas looked at him curiously, as if wondering why Sam assumed he'd be there for any other reason. But the angel just nodded and crossed the threshold.

"And Sariel, Hannah," Sam listed, walking with Cas across the foyer. "How are they?"

"Sariel is busy, but she is hopeful that our plight is heading towards a resolution," Cas said, still with that goofy, happy, _true_ smile. This was all solving itself. This was all coming to its end. And somewhere, Sam felt a deep pang of sadness. Because they'd been through so much. He and Dean together against Azazel and Lilith and each other and now things were simpering out. And Cas, against the devil and the forces of Heaven. The world was becoming small and simple again, and Sam wasn't sure if he was sad because he had once known nothing but simplicity and now knew anything but, or whether it was because he missed it and wanted to be back in that time of naivety.

"Hannah is well also," Cas said, a little stiff and awkward after Sam hadn't given him something to go off after he'd answered his question.  Sam flashed him a smile and they walked the rest of the way into the kitchen in companionable silence.

"So," Sam said finally, turning to Cas, who was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room and looking around the room with idle curiosity. "Want some coffee?"

Dean appeared at the door, curious over the voices and saving Cas from having to decline Sam's offer. He was an angel. He literally did not need sustenance to survive. "Hey, look who decided to jump the nest."

"Yes," Cas agreed. "Sariel, Hannah and I have come close to finishing many of the things that we had set out to fix. The defeat of the Rebellion angels—while not a win by any means," he swallowed, uncomfortable. "Was, uh, not a setback either."

"Course not," Dean snorted. Of the three, he'd easily been the least cut up about the deaths of all the angels. Claire, he'd been worried about. Sam, even, even though his little brother felt more at peace than he had in a long time.  If his brothers detachment was anything new, Sam would have been worried by it.

Cas sensed it too, but he just fidgeted and followed Sam's lead in not saying anything. "Right. But, since Sariel feels that things are evening out in Heaven, I would be allowed to come down, help out here."

"Oh," Sam said, and realised he sounded annoyed when Cas turned to him, curious and a little hurt. "No, I mean..." Sam looked to Dean behind Cas, who just shook his head and widened his eyes. "I was just surprised. I mean, we're between jobs at the moment."

"Are you?" Cas asked, bemused. "I was under the impression that there was always something to be fixed."

"Sure," Sam allowed. He looked to Dean again, this time exasperated, but Dean, again, didn't give him any assistance. Sam wondered when Cas talking to him more than Dean had suddenly become commonplace. Normally, he felt relieved and vaguely envious about Dean and Cas's relationship. Now all he felt was irritated that it didn't seem to pertain to when the Angel was acting like a rejected Prom Date. "I mean, we just got back from North Dakota, this witch thing..."

"Sariel told me this may happen," Cas informed them seriously. He pulled a pad out of his pocket and from where Sam was standing he could see that there was a list of scrawled places. "She had a few places she was concerned about, hoped that we might be able to go check it out."

"Wait, why can't she just go and sort it out herself, Nancy Drew style?" Dean asked, moving into the conversation, ignoring Sam's 'Really? _Now_?' glare.

Cas gave a short, almost insulted, laugh. "Because that would be ridiculous."

"Why?" Sam asked, the question slipping out before he could think it over.

"Because she's an archangel," Cas explained, frowning as he locked from Dean to Sam. "It would be like getting a President to sign the permission form for a field trip."

"Wow, ok, got it," Dean flashed Cas a smile and grabbed an apple from the bag on the bench. "So, where's furthest away. I'm feeling up for a road trip."

"Really?" Sam asked him, raising his eyebrows. "All three of us."

"That would be incredibly inefficient," Cas interjected, looking at both of the brothers, frowning. "I will just exit into the Heavenly layer and come up the other side closer to the point in which we decide to go."

"Can we hitch a ride?" Dean asked, and when Cas looked uncomfortable, Dean backed out, smiling awkwardly.

"Heaven..." Cas trailed off, and the brothers picked up the unsaid taboo. Sam had sensed that there would have been some sort of barrier between humans and visiting Heaven before their time, and the angels response to his and Dean attempting to help Cas take Heaven back from Metatron only cemented this. Dean had either not picked up on it, or had tried to be funny. Either way, as usual, it ended up with a curdling awkward silence.

"Anyway," Sam said, a little too loudly, and Dean gave him a pointed look at the hightened volume. Sam cleared his throat. "What was the first one?"

"Series of odd deaths in Amarillo, Texas," Cas listed easily, in a fluid, memorised tone. "Sariel recommended it, as it is the most prominent across the board."

"Prominent across the board," Dean echoed, smiling with the side of his mouth and glancing again up to Sam, who gave a slight nod of approval. More along the lines of a 'Why not' shrug, but Dean took it as a go ahead anyway.

"Yes," Cas affirmed, looking slightly worried, and blankly confused.

"Well, we'll just have to reconvene in Amarillo," Dean said.

* * *

"Hey," Rachel sat down opposite him in the break room, crossing her ankles over each other, smiling at him and pulling out her sandwich. Stan swallowed his mouthful of pasta, but his voice died at the back of his throat when he saw the engagement ring on her left hand's finger twinkle as she unwrapped her sandwich.

So he just flashed a smile instead, and forked another mouthful of pasta to his mouth.

"You get through to the investor in the end?" Rachel asked, as sympathetic as she had been halfway through the ordeal.

Stan was irritated enough about that to overcome any bitterness over his and Rachel's current situation. "No! I got to his secretary and then, wham, he was _out_ for the next week or so, on some Managers conference in Oklahoma!"

"That's annoying," Rachel agreed, and she paused, considering. "And weird. Who has a conference in Oklahoma?"

"Me and all my Okla-homies," Stan said automatically, and Rachel groaned loudly, throwing her head back and laughing.

"That was _terrible_."

"It was hilarious. _You're_ terrible."

Rachel widened her eyes. "That was so automatic. How did you do that?"

"I'm constantly on the lookout for words that could have 'homies' inserted," Stan explained, fork pushing around his pasta, not wanting to stop talking to her for a minute. Not wanting to stop listening to her _ever_.  "It's how I get my pun licence."

"The idea of a 'pun licence' terrifies me," Rachel stated, taking a bite of her sandwich thoughtfully.

"I wet my pants a bit when I found the flyer advertising it," Stan informed her.

Rachel grinned, almost laughing, with that bright spark in her eye that Stan wished he could accurately capture with a camera, or with a video. Because she was _so_ beautiful. And her smile was half the reason he turned up to the office every morning.

"Hey, how're things going with Todd?" Stan asked, hoping he sounded nonchalant, but knowing that his heart was beating painfully, and his leg had started to tense under the table, and his face had a blush creeping up along his neck.

But Rachel's eyes brightened again, and her lips licked up in a dreamy smile. " _Really_ well. We're going shopping for wedding cakes this weekend. Todd wants chocolate, but not everyone likes chocolate, you know? And no one could complain about vanilla."

"Vanilla ice cream is disgusting, and every ounce of it deserves to burn in the pits of hell," Stan shrugged, taking another bite of his pasta.

Rachel snorted. "Trust _you_ to hate the staple of most desserts. How do you function at dinner parties?"

"I don't," Stan said. "I hate dinner parties."

Rachel laughed again, and Stan felt his heart just _break_.

* * *

"You take Constantine here to the morgue, and I'll head up the Library, check out any local lore," Dean directed, as he, Sam and Cas stood by the Impala, up on the sidewalk in one of Amarillo's more popular streets. Dean was eager to get going and sort out whatever was happening, because of all the things they'd seen recently, this was one of the more horrific.

Bodies torn apart and set alight, blood tests showing signs of blood poisoning. All of it was suspicious enough without their intervention, and Dean was sure that Cas and Sam would find plenty more to worry about when they made their trip to the Coroners office.

"Sounds good," Sam nodded, mouth slightly tighter than Dean would expect from someone who was 'sounds good' with something. Whatever, Dean wasn't going to see chopped up, burnt bodies, and Sam was going to have to deal.

"We'll take the Impala," Cas said, and though Sam sent Dean over a cheshire grin, just _begging_ him to be spiteful and take it instead, he complied.

"Sure," he hoped he didn't sound too strangled. "Call me when you find something."

"You too," Sam said.

Dean nodded and then turned, heading off to where Sam'd figured the library was on the map as he and Sam were pulling into the city. 14th largest in Texas, which the map makers thought they might like to know, for some reason.

As he walked, Dean pushed passed people as they scurried through their lunchbreak to the diner and the restaurant down the end of the street, but he hadn't pulled away far enough before he heard Cas muttering worriedly to Sam about whether his fake FBI badge had expired, and Sam assuring him that it hadn't.

Dean felt an odd, cold pang in his stomach as he walked away. Hunting alone was good, often better. You were clearer, more focused. Liabilities and assets were controlled and tested. There was nothing but you, the victim and the monster. Hunting with a partner threw out that balance.

But Dean sort of really wished that he'd brought a buddy along to share pointed glances with and to smirk at.

But Cas was the strongest, and the most able in protecting, and while Dean knew Sam was more than capable of hunting by himself and taking care of himself, there was still that niggling panic. The one that never faded. That something could happen. And that Dean wouldn't be there to stop it.

He lost himself in his thoughts and moved automatically to the library. He only had to blink away the glare of the sun, despite the overcast day, and figure out which street to turn down once. Other than that his actions were automatic, robotic, irreversible.

He glanced up when he came to the library. It wasn't anything top of the range, but like all smaller city libraries it would serve its purpose.

Dean crossed the road, huddled his jacket a little more thickly around his shoulders as a gasp of cold air slammed down the road as he reached the steps and jogged up to the door, pressing the door open and stepping into the warm interior.

He made his way over to the information desk. He knew that of all the places to start looking, there was the most helpful. He _could_ look through all the books on the reference shelves and potentially take an hour to scour through what information was relevant and what wasn't, _or_ he could go to a librarian and get the information if it was available, and leave if it wasn't.

The man behind the desk was pretty much exactly what Dean would have expected out of a librarian. Rimless glasses perched uneasily on a beaked nose, with a pinched face and darting, large eyes. He had to be in his early 40's at least, but Dean figured that librarians had a pretty low-level stress environment in which they worked, and he could have been a lot older.

"Hey," Dean hit his palms attentively on the desk, not loud enough for it to be violent, but strong enough for the librarian to blink up from his computer.

"Hello," the man seemed a little intimidated, but Dean didn't have the time to worry about that. "Welcome to Amarillo Library. How may we help you?"

"Hi, thanks," Dean smiled tightly, in forced politeness. "I was wondering, I'm doing a paper for the college paper on the towns mythological history, and was wondering if you had any books on that?"

"Oh," the man said, giving Dean a once over, obviously unconvinced that Dean was of the college age.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. "I initially majored in English. Decided to come back, try my hand at the paper business."

"In this climate?" the Librarian asked, and finally as he shifted, the folds of his knitted vest fell open, so Dean could read his name. And he was not disappointed.

"Well, Marv," Dean shrugged. "I suppose I'll be able to write _on_ this climate. Now, what have you got for me?"

Marv eased off his chair and made his way around his desk, he gestured for Dean to follow him, and so he stepped into line with the man. "Amarillo and the surrounding areas had a variety of Native American tribes who called it home. There was trade between them and the tribes of New Mexico for the extensive tools in which to make weapons."

"No offence, Marv," Dean said as they made their way through the shelves to the history section. "But can we skip to the good bit?"

"Well, I don't know about how _good_ —"

Dean gave him a look.

He cleared his throat and gave an awkward half laugh. "Yes, right. I understand. Well, the tribes in the Amarillo area were driven out and killed in the late 1700's. And then fought against their white oppressors up until the late 1800's."

"Right," Dean sighed. "Any folklore on maybe curses that the Native Americans placed on the future ancestors of those who killed them?"

Marv looked uncomfortable, running a finger absently along the books beside him. "Well, no one ever really bothered to _ask_ , I guess. Not to mention, Amarillo isn't exactly the most documented city in America."

"Obviously," Dean agreed. He inwardly grimaced, though, and wondered where his next step should be. There had to be _something_ that made Amarillo so spontaneously active, so alluring that even Sariel, an archangel swaying up in heaven, noticed the disturbance. There had to be _something,_ even if it was just spontaneous. Even if it was just a random occurrence.

But maybe it _was_ just that. Maybe it _was_ just a random occurrence. A random town in a random country. Chosen for no reason.

Dean sighed, smiled and thanked the librarian, glancing half heartedly at the thick volumes proffered to him by the man's eager hand.

"Ah, yeah," Dean waved him off. Information about curses and the stuff of witchcraft was abundant but worthless online. It was only really here that Dean had any hope of getting some 'real' local myths on it. The rest of it, he could just look up on Sam's laptop. "I think I'll just google it."

The librarian looked disappointed, but not surprised. "Yeah. Just a little faster than leafing through a contents, hey?"

"Just a bit," Dean agreed, backing out slowly, the librarian, whether consciously or not, coming with him.

"See you around—?" The librarian let the question hold.

Dean understood immediately. "Dean," he supplied, and Marv smiled, shaking his hand.

"Marv," the librarian introduced himself.

"Mighta read that somewhere," Dean said, nodding to Marv's nametag.

"Right," Marv grinned. "Well, take care, Dean."

Dean left the librarian a little more despondent than when he arrived, but no less determined. Hopefully, Sam and Cas would have picked something out of the body.

* * *

"Agent Palmer, here to see Agent Coulson and Caffey," Dean introduced himself, flashing both the badge and a smile to the lady manning the reception at the Coroners Office. Sam had been unresponsive by phone, which meant that either he'd lost it (unlikely), was dying in a ditch somewhere (unfortunately likely) or was ignoring Dean's calls as he went through the process with Cas in the Morgue. "We're here about the recent murder of Steele Malone?"

Her brief pause as she frowned, as though she might not know what he was talking about caught his heart painfully. All of a sudden that ditch idea wasn't just a happy possibility, it was the full blown reality. Sam was dead, Cas was AWOL, and Dean had let it all go to shit. Again.

But she brightened, and any tension along Dean's body calmed as she nodded and smiled. "Of course. They said that you might join them. Big case?"

"Three man job; the biggest," Dean smiled tightly at her, not completely forgiving the girl for her brief moment of forgetfulness.

"I'll walk you," she announced, standing, smoothing her skirt and walking out from behind the desk. She smiled again, in that trained, overly bright parroted grin, and shook Dean's hand.

"Hi, I'm Hannah," she greeted.

Hannah. Dean felt a small smile threaten to spill out across his features. "Huh. You don't say?"

"Why?" She asked, curious, heading up the conversation; either way Dean was never going to be able to tell the complete truth.

"Oh, I know a girl named Hannah," Dean explained, as Hannah the Secretary (not to be confused with Hannah the angel, one of the deadliest creatures on the planet and compassionate to their cause) led him through the doors and towards the refrigerated morgue. "Yeah, met her in the last year."

Hannah still looked curious, so Dean supplied another falsity. "See, she just joined the Board of Directors of the Bureau." He smiled. "Sort of a big deal. You know how it is."

Dean wasn't even sure if there _was_ a Board of Directors, but it satisfied his host, who led him through the doors and towards where, through a set up of windows, he could see Sam and Cas bent over a mauled body.

Hannah made a face and groaned. "Yuck."

"You took a job as a secretary at a Coroners Office and you still get grossed out by body..." Dean searched for an adequate way to describe the situation. "Uh, things."

Dean inwardly chastised himself. _Stellar performance._

"Well, one, in this job climate?" Hannah gave him a pointed look. "I would have taken a job in a Funeral home. And anyway, _this_ 'body'," she tucked her hands comfortingly under her arms after giving the finger gestures. "Isn't really much on the realm of the _norm_."

"Well, thanks, I think I can make my way from here," Dean smiled at her, and with a nod, she walked back to her desk, arms tucked carefully around her body the whole way.

"Dean!" Cas greeted, seeing his friend before Sam, his brother distracted and faintly disgusted by the body laid out in front of him. "We were worried that you wouldn't make it."

"Why didn't you pick up the phone?" Dean demanded.

Sam looked up and went slightly pink at the ears, and meekly from his pocket, pulled out a scrambled mess of wires and metal. "Cas made me drop it."

"No I didn't," Cas denied absolutely. "Sam dropped it because he was acting recklessly around an automobile."

"Did your phone get tossed from the window, Sam?" Dean sighed.

"Yes," Sam responded quietly, quickly, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "But it was only because Cas switched the volume up about a hundred decibels."

"You stated that you _liked_ the song that was playing!" Cas retorted, looking dangerously close to crossing his arms.

"Sure, I didn't ask you to _deafen_ me," Sam snapped, looking pointedly away from the angel.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I swear, you two are like infants. Is that why it took you so long to get to the bodies?"

"Yeah," Sam muttered, shuffling his foot on the ground and stuffing his phone back in his pocket.

"Right, so, other than the fact that Sam needs a new phone, what have we learnt?" Dean sighed, feeling overwearied, like a single parent or a coach of a little league baseball team with a bunch of guys who refused to play the game properly.

Sam and Cas cast off the bickering to hand over what they knew from their brief examination over the body.

"Definitely supernatural causes," Cas affirmed, taking a step closer to the body and laying his hand on the cool, silver of the table next to it. With that Dean was forced to actually look at it, and Sam sent him a knowing look when he grimaced and leaned backward. Dean decided he probably couldn't blame whoever had analysed him for not closing the eyelids, because the whole of one eye and the eyelid of the other had been completely ripped off, leaving one shiny orb in the middle of a mound of fat and flesh and bone. The organs, thankfully, had been stored elsewhere, but Dean could still see _into_ the ribcage and through the bone on the bicep, cheek and foot. The other foot had been completely ripped off, and the man looked like he'd been ripped down the middle. He was whole enough that they'd granted his corpse privacy with a length of white sheet over the top, but Dean thought it was maybe just to block out whatever other atrocities lay to wait under the cloth.

"Cas did his mojo, and I chatted to the Coroner," Sam said. He looked over at Dean quickly. "Did you meet her? You must have."

"I, uh, no?" Dean thought back, and the only person he'd seen in the building besides Cas and Sam had been the Receptionist.

Sam frowned. "How? Ashley Rife? How could you not have? She was right by the door when we arrived."

"I met the receptionist," Dean offered. "Hannah."

Cas chuckled, and both boys turned to look at him, confused. He looked up at their inquiring glances with nonchalance. "Oh, it's just amusing. That she is called Hannah, and that my friend, the angel, is also called Hannah."

"We know," Dean told him. "We met her."

Sam gave them both disgruntled looks and turned back to the body. "Ok, so, final cause of death was a little hard to pinpoint, but Ashley thinks she's managed to nab it. And, get this, it's not what it looks like."

"You're telling me that the cause of death _wasn't_ the dismembering?" Dean asked wearily. "Great."

"Snake venom," Sam informed him, pulling that tiny, self-satisfied smile. "Ashley sent it to the lab to get tested, but she's nearly 90% sure that _that_ was the first cause of death."

"Must have been pretty fast acting," Dean commented, looking down at the body again, this time with a little more sympathy than distaste.

"Oh, it was," Sam gestured to the body. "The blood was only seeping out of the wounds when they were made, which means that his heart wasn't beating." Sam grimaced. "Something really wanted the poor guy dead."

* * *

Thankfully, Dean hadn't made Sam go through the innards like he had when he and Cas first arrived. They'd been ultimately pointless and he'd put them all back in the fridge as soon as he'd glanced at them, disgusting and ripped in half. So they were done quickly after that, taking note of who Steele Malone's closest friends and family had been.

They walked together out the front and to the Impala. Dean's walk from the library had taken 20 minutes, but the drive (without pit stops for picking up lost phonetic devices) only took about 5 from the city centre.

"So, where to next?" Cas asked, and like every other time the Winchester boys had let Cas ride shotgun on their hunting enterprise, he was overly enthusiastic, a little too kid-at-Christmastime for Sam's taste.

"Uh, I guess, witnesses?" Sam looked to Dean, who shook his head.

"No witnesses."

"Who found the body, then?" Sam asked, frowning.

Dean shrugged. "Concerned citizen."

"Great," Sam sighed.

"So..." Cas looked to Dean, and then to Sam. "We're going to now go instead to speak with..." He looked at them both slowly again. "Relatives?"

Sam smiled. In a way, the guys enthusiasm was refreshing. A welcome respite from the constant tiredness of the job when it was just he and Dean. "Nice one, Cas."

"Should we spit up, again?" Dean suggested, and Sam shrugged.

"Sure. Meet back in the motel room in an hour?"

"Spare change?"

All three turned in synch to the man who'd come over, eyes milky with cataracts and three teeth missing as he smiled up at them.

Dean looked over to Sam, who shrugged.

With a sigh, Dean dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a half handful of coins, handing them to the man with an amicable "Here, buddy".

"You take Cas," Sam said quickly, after the man had moved away.

"You don't have a phone," Dean frowned. "How am I supposed to contact you? No way, McLane."

"Well, my lack of a phone is sort of the issue," Sam gave Cas a pointed look, who rolled his eyes, dangerously close to crossing his arms and pursing his lips.

Dean sighed. " _Fine_. Jesus. It's like working with children."

* * *

"Not much," Dean shrugged off his jacket as he and Cas rejoined Sam a few hours later, answering Sam's greeting question. "Member of an Atheism group that met ever few weeks, not married, an impressive collection of Beatles music and a comfortable job in City Hall."

"Same here," Sam grimaced. "No murders, no overwhelming acts of goodness. I mean, as far as I can tell, he was just a normal guy."

"I agree," Cas supplied seriously, unnecessarily.

Both brothers spared a beat to look over at the angel.

"Uh, has Sariel tried to contact you?" Sam asked finally, breaking the silence and adjusting his position on the chair so that he faced both of them more clearly.

"No, but communication is difficult from Heaven," Cas told them. "She will only contact me if things are bad. Not to check up to ensure things are good."

"Right," Sam said. "So no news is good news."

"And, where will you go tonight, Cas?" Dean asked, looking over as he sat down onto his bed, elbows perched on kneecaps as he looked over to the angel. "Back to Heaven or...?"

"I thought that I'd stay here," Cas said nonchalantly. "Watch over both you and Sam as you slept. Ensure that no harm came to you."

There was a horrified, drawn out pause.

"Yeah, ok, I really think you should go back to Heaven tonight—"

"I agree. I mean, you might be able to pick up some information or tell Hannah about the receptionist that shares her _name_ or—"

"Yeah, yeah."

* * *

Days were long at the office when Rachel went home early. She'd flashed him a smile and then she was gone. Her and her boyfriend had a reservation at a fancy restaurant with Rachel's parents.

So he'd sat around, more idle than efficient, and would have left at 5 on the dot if he hadn't a heap of overtime he needed to get through. And so it was 6 when he finally did manage to get out of there, and to top off his hell of a day, his car had stalled and refused to get going, leaving him to walk home.

Stan kicked at a stone as he marched homeward, his coat, reasonable enough for a walk to and from the car was spitefully thin for the early night time chill. He shuddered and drew in on himself, wishing for a scarf to bury his mouth in. The sun had long disappeared off the edge of the world, and not for the first time that month, Stan wished that Spring would arrive soon. For surely the ongoing painstaking cold had to have a respite at some point. And the short days, and the dead plants and the foul moods, not to mention the coffee breath and—

"Hey there," a coy voice announced itself from the mouth of an alley. Stan drew back, and frowning, turned to it. "Didn't you hear? It gets dark out after the sun goes down."

"No, really?" Stan answered automatically, and inwardly chided himself. His manager had warned him against his excessive use of sarcasm.

He looked a little harder and realised that the girl he was talking to was dressed in a short skirt despite the weather, with high heels and a face full of makeup. Her blood red lips curled into a seductive smile and—

"Oh, no," Stan took an involuntary step backward. "No, no thank you."

The girl pouted. "No?" She sighed and tapped her fake nails on her nearly bare leg. "Too bad. You're the first I've seen in ages."

"First what?"

" _Person_ , dummy," she laughed, and it was nice. A sprinkling, like a fresh water stream. And Stan just kept asking himself... what was the _worst_ that could happen?

"Are you flirting with me?" Stan asked before he could stop himself.

She laughed again, and leant back against the wall, crossing her arms. "Sorta in the job description." She pouted, disappointed, and gave him a once over. "Are you _sure_ that you wouldn't be interested? I'd reduce the price for someone of _your_ calibre."

He knew she was just saying it, but God, it was so _nice_ for someone to _like_ him. Like him like _that_.

But she didn't. Like she'd said. She was just doing her job.

But... it was just _one_ night— _less_ probably—and it didn't _need_ to mean anything, and—

"I..." Stan trailed off. He cleared his throat and straightened. "Ok."

She brightened, standing up from the wall, eyes sparkling under the neon street lights. "Really? Oh, bully for me."

Stan fidgeted, nervous. "So, how does this work, exactly? Do you come back to mine or do we go to a hotel...or to _yours_."

"Egh," She listed off her fingers. "Sure, and definitely not."

"So, motel then?"

"Thought you'd never ask," she smiled brightly, walking over to him and taking his arm. She smelt musky, like burning pines, pipe weed and bonfires. Her hair scratched up against the sleeve of his jacket. She paused and looked up at him. "Just one more thing."

"Oh, yeah?" Stan asked, his unsureness making him bold. "What would that be?"

"Are you in love with anyone?"

Stan swallowed. His instinctive answer had been no, but really? Even the thought of what Rachel would think if she found out what he'd done was shameful enough that he almost called it off then. But he didn't. Because after her disapproving frown, she'd go back to her boyfriend, and she'd hug him and kiss him, and Stan would be left again.

No matter the scenario, Stan was left behind.

And what harm was there in telling the truth?

"Yeah, actually," Stan told her, and decided to leave off the one-way thing.

"Oh, good, good," she smiled.

"I never got your name, by the way," Stan said, his voice catching a little awkwardly.

She laughed, that simpering stream. "Oh, that's ok. For all intents and purposes, I don't have one."

"That's preposterous. Everyone has a name." Teasing, but curious as well.

Her eyes flickered from their warm brown to a lizard green and as she smiled, her teeth filed down to points.

She shrugged, as though he hadn't wrenched his arm from her hold, as though he wasn't walking slowly backward, looking at her in fear. "Not everyone."

And the sound of two more voices was the last thing he ever heard.

* * *

"Dean, Sam, wake up," Cas's low voice sounded out across the room, and Dean tossed in his bed, the warmth of the mattress below him sweet against his cheek, hand flung out across his rumpled bed clothes.

Cas hadn't turned the lights on, and though Dean was grateful, it meant that the angel stood an impressive silhouette by the window, the light from outside framing around him like the herald of heavenly light.

Dean murmured incoherently and pushed himself to his elbows. "Cas? The hell are you doing?"

"I thought we told you to go home," Sam's dry, sleepy statement came.

"I did go home," Cas told them, miffed. "For a bit. But then I came back, because Hannah told me that she heard something on the earthly plane that had some relation to our current hunt."

"Oh?" Dean asked, not entirely believing his over-eager friend. "D'you tell Hannah that you met another Hannah?"

"I did, although she wasn't as surprised as I thought she'd be," Cas answered easily. "She said that the name was actually quite common."

"We could'a told you that," Sam muttered, his voice still thick with waking, sitting up and pushing his hair out of his eyes. "Now, what did Hannah hear exactly?"

"Just a disturbance," Cas told them, coming into the room more confidently, even going as far as switching the light on. Dean blinked as it impeded unwelcome into his eyes, and he tried to downplay the surliness as he saw the time. 3:46. And people wondered why he really kind of hated his life. "But she said it was definitely our thing."

"Right," Sam yawned and sat up, running a hand over the back of his neck. "Well, I got my full 2 hours, so I'm set."

Dean still hadn't sat up properly, and was a step behind his brother when Cas finally took it upon himself to step out and give them a bit of privacy as they got ready to check out what was going on. But soon they were ready to go, Sam and Dean dressed up in their Fed suits, badges in their pockets and faces as presentable as could be expected at that hour of the morning.

"Gotta love the early morning shift," Dean muttered, pushing his Colt into the pack of his pants just as Sam did the same with his Taurus.

 Sam gave the huff of a half hearted laugh. "Well, it's a damned sight better than late shift."

Stake outs. Ugh.

"Coffee first," Dean said finally.

And with an exaggerated, thankful nod, Sam agreed.

* * *

"Gross," Dean muttered to Sam and Cas, who looked equal parts disgusted and determined as him. Although for them, determination to solve the case and save lives was enough to get over the fact that this body was even worse than the last one.

He'd been completely torn in two, and his face had been nearly completely ripped off. If it wasn't for his wallet, which had miraculously survived the murder, they would have had nearly nothing to identify him on.

All three looked over as a woman dressed in a white lab coat marched smartly over, clipboard tucked under her arm. "Good morning, gentlemen. Don't take this the wrong way, but I'd really hoped I wouldn't be seeing you again so soon."

"Or at all," Sam agreed. "Rife, this is our third partner, Palmer."

"Did you _know_ that there was going to be more than one murder?" She asked them, almost suspicious, her no nonsense tone commanding the situation. "Is that why the Bureau sent more than two guys?"

Sam cleared his throat and looked at her expressionlessly. "That is not for concern, Ms. Rife. Now, would you be able to tell us a little about Stan Beesly? Are we certain that it's the same causes as Mr. Malone?"

"Sure of it," Ashley Rife told him grimly. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, yawning violently as she looked down over the body. "Oh, sorry. It's been a lot of early mornings and late nights recently."

"I completely understand," Dean assured her.

Rife looked down to her watch and glanced back up at them, unhurried but decisive. "There should be the results from the first venom found in the blood back now, and they said that they'd prioritise the second set to get it to me as soon as possible. Do you mind—?"

"No, no, go ahead," Sam assured her, and with a tight smile and a dip of her head, she hurried out, clip board still held under her arm.

Cas, silent through the whole exchange, stirred to life and bent over the corpse. He wrinkled his nose and squatted down next to it, narrowing his eyes.

Finally he pulled up. "The venom is the same. And he was definitely killed by the same thing."

"Right," Sam nodded, looking from Dean to Cas. "So now we just need to find a connection between the victims, and we'll have a motive."

"Or a lead to a motive," Dean reminded him realistically.

"Sure," Sam shrugged. "Ok, Dean, Cas, you guys go off and interview the family of Stan Beesly and I'll go back to the motel and do a little more research. I think I got near something yesterday, but nothing concrete yet."

"Call us if you—" Dean cut himself off and frowned at Sam. "Just, uh..."

"Or," Sam suggested. "I could use the motel phone."

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Good idea."

"Where is the Beesly place or residence?" Cas inquired, looking over at the ruined corpse of the man in question.

"Northern end of town," Dean answered, pulling out a notepad, which he flicked to the most recent notes he'd made. "Heatherton Road. Let's go."

Before they could move, Hannah rushed into the room. The receptionist was understandably bedraggled, and the early morning saw her not wearing any makeup.

"What happened?" Sam asked her quickly.

"I was just informed by the police," she took a harsh breath and looked from Sam to Dean, flashing to Cas and then back to Sam's calming, fixating eyes. "They have a witness."

The blood rushed cool to Dean's head, and he and his brother exchanged a look.

* * *

They still decided to split up, and forwent family members for Sam staying up in the motel room and researching the hell out of their case. Cas and Dean went instead to the witness, who was a janitor in one of the buildings nearby.

He was nervous when they stepped into the room with him, eyes flicking from Cas to Dean, and then back and forward one more time, trying to figure out who exactly they were.

"Mornin', Mr. Smith," Dean smiled. "How'd you feel about answering a few questions for us today?"

"Sure, fine," Harry Smith smiled painfully, looking at Cas, who had drawn back, eyebrows cinched as he watched the scene. "And, uh, you guys are...?"

"Feds," Dean sent over a swift, easy smile. "I'm Agent Palmer, This is Agent Caffey, and we're real interested in hearing firsthand what you told the cops."

"About the guy who died?" Harry clarified, and rebuked, clearing his throat when Dean graced his question with a raised eyebrow. "Uh, yeah, obviously."

"Pretend we haven't had a chance to read your official statement," Dean suggested, pulling up at the seat on the other side of the table and pulling it out to sit on. "What happened?"

"Well, I was walking passed the window when I saw that guy talking to a Hooker," Harry explained artfully, trying to keep his hands on the table where everyone could see them. He'd seen enough cop movies to know what these two feds were probably worried about. And the fact that they'd led him into a questioning room rather than somewhere nicer spelt out how much they trusted him. "And you know, didn't think much of it. I see her with guys most nights. Sometimes, if I'm on a longer shift, I see her with a few."

"A few a night?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows. "Busy girl."

"Well, she didn't go home with any of them," he shrugged. "None of 'em tickled her fancy, I guess."

"Not exactly a thrilling business move," Dean tilted his head. Dean glanced back to Cas, who understood the significance of this. If she had been acting oddly, and had been the last person that Stan had been seen with, then she was their next target.

"I guess," Harry shrugged again, a little more at ease now that they'd worked through the first uncomfortable moments.

"And you didn't hear anything else, or see anything else," Dean clarified, watching the witness hard, unblinking as Harry looked away, abashed.

"Uh, yeah, I was um..." He managed a half smile. "Listenin' to my tunes, I guess."

"You were listening to music as a man was brutally murdered mere metres away," Cas spelled out, speaking for the first time since entering the room. Since his first few disastrous, unsubtle interviews, Dean had instructed him to sit back and let Dean take the reins. Cas, as it seemed, couldn't help himself.

Harry looked directly uncomfortable this time, and a little guilty. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

"Well," Dean stood and pushed his chair in, looking at the man and smiling his fake smile. "We'll contact you if we have any follow up questions."

"I—"

Cas followed Dean as the two of them left Harry inside the room, nodding to the Captain as they passed, exiting quickly out of the building.

"Where do you think we should go now?" Cas asked, as they both stepped onto the road, waiting for traffic to abate, the Impala waiting comfortably across the way. "To interview the prostitute?"

"We'll get Sam first," Dean shrugged, walking in between the traffic and leaving Cas to do an awkward half jog to keep up. "See if he's found anything and then try and track her down."

* * *

Hannah moved quickly through the halls. Since Sariel's instalment, things had changed. They were no longer rigidly straight and cruelly separate. Angels were encouraged to speak to each other, to share wisdom and insight passion. And although this happened but rarely, it was a welcome respite from the ideals of the leadership that came before the forgotten Archangel.

Hannah had no time to reflect on that now though, because something was terribly, unfixably wrong. She bit her lip as she moved passed the curators, the architects, the protectors.

_She'd sent them to their deaths._

Sariel's office as well had changed dramatically, and first had been the doors. Once heavy oak were now semi-opaque sliding doors, where even from the end of the corridor Hannah could make out Sariel's silhouette.

She slammed into the office, without time to ask for permission, trusting her ability to beg for forgiveness.

"Sister, I—" Sariel made out, startled by the angels intrusion.

"I apologise, Sariel, but I had no one else to turn to," Hannah stated quickly, feeling every second that ebbed a second wasted. A second were the tide could turn and everything would be lost.

"Of course, Hanael. What's wrong?" Sariel was still calm, irritatingly so for Hannah, who's mind was still spinning in desperate, fearful circles.

"It is Castiel, and the Winchesters," Hannah explained quickly, voice trembling with the effort of civility. "I have discovered what monster we have sent them to destroy. It wasn't a spirit, like we suspected."

"No?" Sariel asked, frowning. Then her eyes widened. "Hannah, what was it? It wasn't—"

"Yes, it was," Hannah let her eyes close, her forehead tense. She opened them meekly and stared forlornly at her superior. "Sariel, we have sent them to their deaths."

* * *

Dean knew something was wrong as soon as he drove back into the motel. There was nothing obviously untoward happening. The cars parked were as dusty and decrepit as they had been, and the emptied vending machine still had an opaque covering of graffiti. Through the windshield, though, a worried, grey haze covered everything in sight.

Something was missing. Something was broken. Dean could just tell.

Cas turned to him, agitated. "There's something wrong. Dean? _Dean_? Is there something wrong?"

"I don't kn—"

"I think something is wrong," Cas announced, his voice a worried, near whine, breaths coming faster, eyes hard with fear. "Where is Sam? Where is he?"

Dean just swallowed and said nothing, parking the Impala with a painful, appropriate slowness, turning her off and kicking the door open, half jogging as he made his way up to their room.

"Sam?" He banged on the door, fiddling around in his pockets as he searched for his key. "Sammy? Sam!"

"Dean?" Cas looked at him, and then around them, as though Sam might appear.

Dean ignored him, feeling something red and vicious turning in his stomach. " _Sam_!" he banged again, and his heart leapt to his throat that with the third, decisive hit, the door swung open. It had been jammed. Because it had been broken.

Both stood there, shocked for a moment. Before charging in, Dean scanning the room quickly, from the made beds to the empty bathroom, and then to the table, where Sam's laptop was open and running, a tired whir sounding through the room.

"Sammy?" Dean asked again, this time more out of desperation than necessity. The door was broken and his brother was gone.

"Dean," Cas's voice was low and cold. He was standing over a square of ground, looking down, grim. He stared back up to Dean and nodded to where he was standing.

Dean walked over, trepidation shaping each step. He swallowed and swore when he saw what Cas was referring to. A drying drop of blood.

"He can't have been gone for too long," Cas said, keeping the conversation moving, keeping Dean out of himself.

"I know," Dean said, distracted, moving over to Sam's computer, as though maybe Sam had accidently triggered the video and had recorded the whole thing. As though maybe his little brother _wasn't_ an expert on computer technologies. But he was distracted by what Sam had been looking at, because the more he read, the more he understood.

"Cas," Dean called over, voice breathless. "What... do you think he might have been on to something?"

Cas gave up his hunt for further clues by the doorway and rejoined Dean at the computer, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head, taking in the screen. He took a measured step back and frowned, in though, mulling over all of the evidence, all that they had seen.

His voice was dry when he spoke. "It... it _does_ make sense."

Dean's eyes brightened and hardened. "Do you think that it took him?"

Cas hesitated.

" _Cas_. Do you?"

Cas nodded slowly. "I do. I think...that it took him."

And that it, Dean tasted it on his tongue. Felt the fire and the ancient history and the life of it. The _life_ of it. " _Chimera_."

Cas nodded, running a hand over its head. "Perhaps it learnt that we were hunting it."

"How? I mean, _we_ didn't even know that we were hunting it," Dean said, jittery, frustrated, every second not spent hunting this brother down a second. "That...that _thing_ has _Sam—_ "

"Well, we assume that the prostitute was the monster?" Cas asked, going over everything again. "But that doesn't make sense, if they'd take Sam. Because we never met her. She'd have no reason to even know who we are."

"Right," Dean agreed, watching Cas with fixed, solid eyes. "Right. So how could it be her?"

"Unless it's not her, and the janitor was confused or mislead us," Cas continued. But he backtracked, shaking his head. "No, I would have been able to sense if he were lying. He wasn't."

"Would you be able to tell if someone we met was not human?" Dean asked eagerly, as if struck. "Because then we could just take out all the people who you met—"

"No, no," Cas cut him off quickly. "Not a monster like this. They're exceedingly powerful, and they would be able to convert themselves into complete human forms. I'd only be able to tell if I concentrated very hard."

"Concentrate harder next time," Dean growled, glaring at him. "Sam is _gone_ —"

"I'm _sorry_ , Dean," Cas told him, angry now as well. "I didn't realise—"

"No you _didn't_ —"

"Dean, Sam wouldn't—"

"Don't you _dare_ bring him into this, he's _my_ brother, _I_ would know what—"

"Dean," Cas told him steadily, cutting him off, not throwing any words back, not pouring into the vat of anger the Winchester stored. "Dean, we need to find him. We need to _think_."

Dean abated, but his face was still red, and his lips still twisted, eyes still blazing. He looked down and Cas took that as Dean's admittance. Dean Winchesters great humbling.

Cas took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and _thought_.

If the girl was the monster, then how did it know that they were investigating it? Without the janitor as a witness, they never would have even suspected her. So then, was she the monster? But...what if it was both? What if the monster didn't know, and _did_ at the same time?

A Chimera was a beast made up of three creatures. A lion for a head, the hide of a goat and the tail of a snake. Three things. Did it make sense, then, that there were three people? Perhaps who combined together, to make up the three components of the monster?

"Dean," Cas said quietly, turning to Dean, who was astutely aware, utterly quiet. "I think I'm beginning to understand. There are three."

"Three Chimera's?" Dean asked, haggard. "Peachy."

"No, there are three _components_ to a Chimera," Cas explained quickly, gesturing to the screen. "Head of a lion, hide—"

"Of a Goat, tail of a serpent, yeah, I got all the info," Dean finished, urgent. "And?"

"Well," Cas said. "Doesn't it stand to reason, that if the Chimera can be in different places at once, then that the monster is made _up_ of more than one person? It splits up into three things that appear human, and then reforms?"

"But why?" Dean asked, voicing the question that Cas had been hovering around. "Why wouldn't it just stay in its normal state?"

"Other than secrecy? I don't—" Cas frowned and paused, and Dean watched him carefully as Cas caught himself. "Perhaps it takes energy. A _lot_ of energy, to stay bonded. They can reform for brief periods of time, but then they have to break apart."

"Aren't you an angel?" Dean sidetracked, a little wryly. "Aren't you supposed to be the expert?"

Cas frowned, feelings stung a little. He _was_ supposed to know this. But he wasn't an expert on monstrology. God had chosen he watch over mankind, not all the things that were crawling over each other in purgatory. "Excuse me?"

"Sorry, carry on."

Cas gave him another second of his pointed glare before adhering to Dean's request and carrying on. "These deaths, we haven't been able to figure them out because they've been random occurrences, right? Just random people, no connection to the Supernatural."

"Right," Dean nodded.

"But what if they weren't victims, per se?" Cas pressed. "What if they were sacrifices?"

"To give the monster more power?" Dean figured, sorting through out loud. "So that it can stay rejoined for longer."

"Exactly," Cas breathed.

"Nice job, buddy."

Cas smiled.

"Sam's disappearance was supposed to scare us away," Dean said forcefully, bringing them back to the soul of the matter, the reason for their haste. "But we gotta McLane this bitch. Ready to Die Hard, Willis?"

"We'll split up," Cas nodded. "I'll take witnesses houses, you take police building and the Coroner's Office. Have we been anywhere else?"

Dean turned, already heading out the door. "Roger that."

* * *

" _Nowhere_ ," Cas's voice was a small, tinny ring on the other end of his cell, but Dean didn't feel any more confident that the entirety of the places that they'd been were being searched. No matter how far away Cas was, anyone might have overheard them mumbling along the street, parked with the window down. Dean was feeling his hope drift off with every second spent.

Why take him and keep him alive? If Sam had been taken to scare them off, they would have had to know that killing him would have made more of a statement. If they'd wanted Dean to leave, they surely would have known to finish Sam once and for all.

Hell, if they wanted to kill Dean, all they needed to do was to end Sam's life.

But they hadn't, and something about this tasted wrong.

The things Cas had said sounded right. And felt right. It _felt_ like there were three components to a Chimera running around Amarillo and it _felt_ like they were on the right track with where Sam was being held, but _why_ Sam had been taken had only ever been brushed upon.

And that felt wrong, awkward, the wrong weight to be considering.

"Jeez, Cas," Dean said, and he wished that it didn't sound like he was irritated at his friend, but he kind of was. He was kind of irritated about everything. Angry, even. Yeah. He was _furious_ at everything. How many times would the world take his brother, before it was kind enough to take him too?

Dean took a long, steadying breath. "Ok. Where are you headed next?"

" _Coroner's office,_ " Cas replied diligently, and in the background Dean made out the sounds of the engine of the car that Cas had stolen starting up.

Dean spoke up quickly. "No, don't. I'm just leaving. He's not here."

" _I thought you were checking the police station_?"

"I did," Dean responded emotionlessly. "He wasn't there either."

" _Don't panic, Dean,_ " Cas soothed. " _There has to be somewhere else. We'll find him_."

"It's nearly been an _hour_ ," Dean reminded Cas savagely, glaring at the woman who gave him a sideways glance as he yelled into his phone.

Cas paused, and Dean nearly growled in frustration at his quiet. "What's wrong, Cas?"

" _Well, I was just considering—obviously Sam comes first, but—we need some way to kill the Chimera, and if the legend is right, then its next victim needs to lay a hand on the Chimera's chest. And it should die."_ Cas took another pause. " _I just... we need some way to stop this thing._ "

"Is this really the time?" Dean demanded. "We can worry about that _after_ we find Sam. If he's been bleeding out, he's nearly dead!"

" _I understand_ ," Cas assured him quickly. " _But we need to think. Where else have you gone? Even just to research_."

"We did all the research at the m—" Dean's eyes widened and his pace slowed as he thought it out. _Could_ it be?

" _Dean? Dean? What about the motel_?"

"What? Why are you talking about the motel? He's not in the motel."

" _I wasn't, you—_ "

"Cas, if I don't call you back in five minutes, I want you to come to the library and find me, ok?"

" _Library, Dean, what—?"_

"Hey, Cas, _ok_?"

" _Ok_."

* * *

Sam moved blearily against the floor and nearly groaned out loud when the slightest wince of his forehead sent stacks of pain toppling through his skull. It reverberated like a drum, echoing painfully, streaking like blots of lightening against his swollen mind.

After he wisely chose not to move his head again, he felt his mouth dry and metallic, and the skin of his lips cut raggedly, like he had bitten them either when he was unconscious or when he was being moved. His throat was raw and sore to breath down, and as he went to move his hands, he found them bound, chafing, bleeding, _excruciating_.

Even opening his eyes was a chore, so he focused on what he last remembered. He was sitting in his room, he heard the door unlock and open, heard more than one set of feet. Though that Dean and Cas must have arrived back earlier than they thought, and turned around to greet them. Had thoughts about offering them all a beer, tell them about his Chimera theory, before he felt something hard and heavy slam against the side of his head.

Sam grimaced and this time, ignored the severe pang that sliced through his head. He was _sick_ of being knocked out.

Finally, irritated enough to spite the people who'd taken him, he opened his eyes and looked around. There wasn't much to see except for stacked chairs and an old projector. The walls were dark and bare, and all the surrounding objects seemed awkward and out of place, like Sam was in a storage room that had recently been emptied and readjusted. Sam's eyes slipped out of focus and anything else he might have been able to pick up to help him was lost.

He groaned and rested his head back, shuddering against the pain that shot through his head and down his back. There was something very wrong with him. He needed Dean, he needed to get out of here, _now_.

Sam immediately pretended to be unconscious again when he heard voices from outside the doorway.

"...not my fault, where else was I supposed to put him? I don't have a home, remember?"

"None of us do, idiot," the second voice snapped. Both were men, and of the two, one sounded familiar, but only very vaguely. Like Sam had heard it or one similar even only once before. "You should have just killed him."

"We could kill him now," the first voice said, and Sam felt his blood chill. There was no way he'd be able to fight them off, not in the state he was in.

The second sighed. "No, no. His brother should be on his way, and we need to keep leverage over him."

"Fair enough."

Sam adjusted himself slightly, and this time the pain was enough to tetter upon the edge of wakefulness. Any moment now and he'd slip back asleep.

He could understand that they'd want to dissuade him, Cas and Dean from the case, but killing Sam outright made a lot more sense than forcing Dean to come right to them. Perhaps they wanted to kill all three of them, rather than scare them off, but still, kidnapping seemed counterproductive.

Sam's blood chilled as he mulled through what they _really_ wanted. And how the hell he was going to save his brother in the state he was in.

* * *

"Hey! Dean! What are you—"

"No time," Dean interrupted him smartly, stepping passed Marv, the librarian and heading for the stairs heading down that he'd noticed when he first arrived. He hadn't though anything of it, because all libraries needed archives and storage space. But now, where everywhere secret could contain his missing brother, the stairs were as promising as ever.

"Dean?" Marv hurried after him and Dean didn't stop him. "What's wrong?"

"I need to see the floors beneath the ground," Dean told him easily, marching through the library and pushing the door open strongly when he reached it. His hand slammed against the wood, and the glass rattled in its frame.

"Uh, do you have a warrant to do that?"

"No time," Dean told him, still without looking, now taking to the stairs, Marv hurrying to keep up.

"Then I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Marv told him, a little breathless. Dean didn't even see him, walking quickly down the stairs, footsteps thudding against the floor.

"Yeah," Dean replied, coming down to the bottom of the stairs, feet muffled as he hit carpet, looking left and right before deciding to try the door furthest from the stairs. He wasn't listening, and Marv could hear it in the absentness of his voice.

"Sir, without permission, you are _not_ allowed—"

"This, is public property," Dean finally turned on him, eyes blanketed in such a _consumed_ rage that Marv took a step back. "And if you are what I suspect you are, then a fucking _warrant_ is the last thing you need to be worried about."

Marv stood, stunned, while Dean glowered down at him. Then Dean turned on his heel and stormed off to the end door, and Marv scurried after him like a frightened rabbit.

"Dean, I really—"

Dean ignored him and tried the door, the rattle of the lock shaking out from the handle. Dean gritted his teeth and tried again, wrist clenching as he fought to turn it.

Everything fell out of Dean's mind when he heard a tiny, worried groan of pain from behind the door. He'd know that voice blind, he'd know that voice amongst thousands, he'd hear it ringing above any other in the clashing of a chorus choir and he'd hear it calling to him from the other end of the earth. That was his brother. His _brother_. The last person he really _had_. The _only_ person he'd ever really had.

So something blind took over him. Something beyond hot, beyond furious. That was his _brother_. Something barbed and hackled and mean. Something _strong_.

Dean turned and rammed his shoulder into the door, gritting his teeth harder and ignoring the explosion of pain as his shoulder collided with it. He knew Marv was there, watching him, expressionless and guilty as hell, but while Sam was alone and in pain, it didn't matter. It _didn't matter_. Nothing did. Nothing but the door that was in the way. The world, for a breathless moment, was them and them alone.

On the third slam the door burst open and Dean raced into the room, looking around before falling to his knees at the side of his crumpled brother.

His eyes flicked over Sam's body, from his bound, chafing wrists to his wide, scared eyes. Sam was sick, that much was obvious. He was hardly moving himself and his face was splotchy and pale. There was dried blood in his hair and red gathered at the corners of his mouth.

"Sammy?" Dean managed, placing his hands carefully on his brothers chest, hoping that the human contact could distract him from the pain. He heard the footsteps of Marv from outside the door and clenched his hand in Sam's shirt, determined. "Hang on, bud. Cas is coming."

"Hello Dean," Marv said, voice distant and simple, eyes staring and vacant. Dean stood to meet him, and let his face drop for an instant when he saw that he wasn't alone. A woman stepped out after him, who must have been the hooker that Stan had been talking to before his death, and then a third person, a man.

Dean's face twitched with realisation. It was the homeless man, the one he'd given money to after they'd stepped out of the Coroner's office.

But still, three people. Cas had been right.

And the Librarian. Dean had been too.

"We've been—"

The woman; "Waiting—"

The third man; "For you."

Dean didn't move. "Yeah, well, I've been wanting to meet you asshats for a while as well. Wanna tell me why you tied my brother up and nearly killed him? Or should I _guess_?"

"We wanted—"

" _Needed_ ," the woman corrected Marv.

"Needed," Marv agreed. "You to come here. To be here."

"Why?" Dean demanded. "Because we were hunting you?"

"No, of course not," The third man said, his voice grating, harsh. "You were the final sacrifice."

Dean stilled and watched all of them, taken off guard. "What?"

"We cannot merge together for long," she explained, looking to her brothers forlornly. And Dean imagined she was the snake, slithering behind them, the final thing someone saw before their death. "But the sacrifice of sinners is a powerful thing. And sin, these days, is so easy to commit."

"Those other two men," Dean spelled out for himself. "They—"

"Atheism, and sexually perversion," she shrugged. "Two ticks. One more, and we're done."

"Why me, then?" Dean asked, thinking now. Thinking _hard_. Because Cas should be coming, and when Cas came, the angel would need to heal Sam first and foremost; clear his brother from harm.

But thinking of Cas, and the Chimera, and Sam, and _everything_ —because the way to kill the Chimera, the way to eradicate it from existence—the only way to do it—had been for its next victim—its _next_...

Dean stood up straight and glared, heavy and _angry_ at the monster. For what it had done to the people already dead, for what it had done to Sam.

"You forewent traditional means for technology," Marv spelt out in that easy lilt that came from memorising a set phrase. "You came into the library and preferred to use the internet over books."

"And that's a sin?" Dean demanded. " _Jesus_. Then couldn't _anyone_ be picked up for anything?"

"Well, yes," the third man said, shrugging. They all smile, eerily in synch. "But you were a hunter. And you were rude. And we wanted you dead. We wanted to do it right."

"Bite me, you son of a bitch," Dean snarled. "And I'll be wanting those quarters back, as well."

"Fair enough," he chuckled, turning to Marv and the woman, both of whom gave him silencing glares.

"Stop," Marv said, deadly quiet, staring at Dean. "The sacrifice must begin, and our strength must be collected."

Dean watched in horror as they reached out their arms, grabbing onto each other's forearms and throwing their heads back, chanting as their skin began to bubble and hiss. The brown mixture that became their bodies melted through their fingers onto the others arm, the woman in the middle looking like she was being pulled apart. The skin melted and flayed until it had combined into a mixture of the three, barely recognisable now even as humans.

Dean strayed back by Sam and watched the transformation in horror. The chanting continued though they had no mouths, and Dean felt it thrum under his skin, sliding around at the same beat as his blood. There was something cruel in the air, something with a vicious bite, and it peered down through him like he gave it certainty of completion.

Dean took another step back as the Chimera began to take form. He swallowed and reached for his gun, the tiny slip of metal feeling inadequate as it slid into his hand. What could he do, with this, against _that_?

And _that_ was a towering _beast_ , black fur and hungry red eyes set in the face of a growling lion. The bristled fur of the lion transformed into rough goats hair from the neck down, and the four feet were like paws, with massive claws sticking out of either one. The snake tail was long and thick, a serpent coiling along the back, pink tongue flickering as it hissed, eyes as ruby red as the lion.

"Holy freakin' Hell," Dean muttered and stumbled back as the lion roared, building shaking with the sound. Dean was distracted from worrying about everyone else in the building, reflecting that he was so, _so_ grateful he never ran into one of these during his stint in purgatory.

"D'n?" Sam's voice was blurred in the corner of the room, and he looked urgent, worried.

"It's ok, Sammy," Dean told him, flicking a smile up as he looked at his brother. "Everything's gonna be ok."

The Chimera roared again and Dean span his gun out, aiming, taking a moment, just a stilled, perfect moment, to take a breath, before he fired three bullets into its side, smiling when it roared in pain, the snakes hissed filling the room.

The snake jerked toward him and he whacked it back, swearing as he smacked it out of the way, firing again at the monsters head. He needed to get closer, but the things teeth and claws were everywhere, and of everything it was covering its chest the most.

The door slammed open and Cas called out from where he was standing. "Dean!"

"Cas?" Dean yelled, and ducked and scrambled back as the Chimera made at him again, firing more bullets into its side to keep it busy while he felt for the reload. he looked over and saw the angel making his way towards him, but Dean shook his head quickly, looking pointedly over to the corner where his brother was staring glassily at the ceiling. "Help Sam! Help Sam first!"

"Dean, we have no way to stop—"

"Don't worry, just distract it," Dean managed quickly as he slammed the gun finished, rattling with the rest of the bullets as he kicked down a row of chairs into its side and fired a few more times, face conformed into an ugly glare as he fired the rounds into its side.

Dean felt his heartbeat pick up as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the blue light of Cas's grace healing Sam's wounds. Once he knew that Sam was ok, _then_ he would focus on killing the thing. But everything else was falling secondary. Nothing else mattered, as corny as it sounded.

Dean prepared to fire again when he blanched back, shielding his eyes, fire spurting wildly from the mouth of the Chimera.

Dean scrambled under the fallen plastic chairs and swore to himself. Now _that_ he didn't know it could do.

Another blue light and Dean took a harsh breath, closing his eyes and praying that Cas was nearly finished with Sam.

They flew back into seeing when the result of the grace wasn't as he'd expected, Sam's healing, but a massive explosion, that seared heat along his skin, burning under his clothes. The lights in the roof crashed off, and glass fell from the ceiling. Even hidden beneath the chairs Dean huddled under his arm, blinking back into the darkness when the worst of it had fallen.

"Dean!"

Dean jerked to his feet and kept a careful hand on his gun, peering into the gloom for the monster, making his way over to where he knew Cas and Sam were. Blue light flickered from Cas's palm and Dean hurried over faster, nearly breaking into a sprint when a mewling of a wounded animal came from the side of the room.

"Sam?" Dean made as a question, coughing through the dust in the air and squatting next to Cas by his brothers limp form.

"Healed and sleeping," Cas informed him quickly, placing a hand almost absently on Sam's chest. "But we need to get all of us out of here. We need the next victim."

Dean shook his head, swallowing his next ring of coughs. "No, no, it's me. It's me. I'm the next target."

Cas's eyes widened. "Then—"

"Yeah, it all makes sense now, right?"

Cas nodded. "We need to get you to the Chimera's chest."

"How?" Dean asked, and before Cas said anything more, movement and the bright spark of the Chimera shifted from the other end of the room.

"Out of time," Cas said grimly, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean looked at him questioningly, but Cas didn't respond. There was a smash as the monster collided into the wall, and a crunch as the wall gave out. The ground shook as it righted itself, and then the walls as it roared out in anger.

The monsters hulking back came into view, and before Dean could do anything, Cas pushed him hard, and with the extra strength of an angel, Cas's shove sent him spinning over the ground and under the Chimera's neck.

It reacted slowly, poorly, healing but still put out by Cas's attack.

Dean looked up and saw its head, saw its convulsing neck and the dusty black fur of the lions head. And he saw its chest.

Without giving a second he reached up and placed his palm hard on the breastplate, feeling the convulsing and the quivering, feeling the heartbeat pick up as the body realised what was happening.

As if to lament its own passing, it roared again, and Dean stumbled up and back, watching it as it fell to its stomach, the place where he'd placed his hand flashing yellow and orange with flame. In the perfect hand print.

The body fell to the floor and its eyes closed, the red pinpricks of light flickering off. And then the thing died. It _died_. Something so big and so strong, and all it had taken was Dean's hand. All it had taken was Dean reaching out and touching it, pressing his palm to its heart.

The silence that fell was deafening. The building creaked and dust still fell from the ceiling, but Dean didn't care. He looked over to Cas, who, with wide eyes, was still crouched protectively by Sam's side.

Both flinched and turned when the door slammed again and someone, coughing, made their way into the room. The light from the hallway was still nearly working, and all Dean made out of the silhouette was a head of bushy hair and the pointed tip of an angel blade.

"Dean? Castiel?"

"Hannah?" Cas stood to greet his sister. He cupped his hand and light gathered in it. It reflected off the angels face, and showed her puffing, red, and angry.

"Hi," Dean waved. "We ganked a Chimera for you."

Hannah, however, wasn't amused. She waved her phone. "Someone wanna tell me why I can't reach Sam? Sariel had given orders for you to clear out. _She_ was going to take care of it."

"Well we did," Cas said, and Dean grinned at the pride in his friends voice. "Dark Knight style."

* * *

Hannah and Cas had requested that they be delivered to the nearest portal when Dean offered, and not wanting to hang around while the angels sorted out the Chimeras body, the brothers left with the angels as soon as they could. They cleared out the motel room, payed off the deposit and drove away from Amarillo, placing the town squarely in their mirror.

"So," Dean said, finally, the first time he'd spoken to Sam and only Sam since he'd been kidnapped by the Chimera. Hannah and Cas had disappeared into the Anglican church with a small wave and smile only a few minutes ago, but the Impala was already speeding along the highway. "Crazy couple of days, huh?"

"I know, right?" Sam agreed, wincing _himself_ at how awkward his response was.

Dean fell quiet after that. Perhaps he sensed that Sam felt useless and weak after being captured by the enemy and held.

"Ok," Dean finally sighed. "Look, Buttercup, it is _not_ your fault that you were captured by the tiny man and held at knife point at the risk of a game of wits. If they'd decided that being tall was a sin, then they would have taken me instead."

"Right," Sam said, lips puckering into a smile at 'Buttercup'. "For the Princess?"

Dean grinned. "To the death?"

They both quoted the final bit together. "I accept!"

They laughed and Sam sat a little easier as the car rolled through the country towards the Bunker.

"Hey, is it as weird for you as it is for me that we're sitting in something that used to be a person?" Dean asked, nodding to the Impala, to the steering wheel in his hands.

Sam's eyes widened. " _Yes_. Oh my God. I thought I was the only one."


	15. Krissy and the Pussy-cats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam bump into a familiar face on a case.

Nellie crept along the street and tried to keep very quiet. Tried to keep as still as she could without fully stopping. Because if she stopped then they'd get her. No mercy, no hesitation.

She swallowed a sob as she imagined it. Gun or knife? Would it hurt? What would happen, to her especially? She was far from an angel, but she had lived her life as best as she could. And that was forgiven, right? Her Ma had always taught her that sinners went to hell and blessed people went to Heaven, but maybe she was wrong. Because the priest had also said that God forgave.

And Nellie hoped that he was the right one now.

Through the crisp night air, Nellie thought she heard the crack of a can, the sliding of something heavy and rough on the ground. Maybe it was harmless, sliding with the wind, carried by currents that she couldn't feel or see.

She felt like crying. She felt like sitting down and _sobbing_. But she didn't, because her Ma had taught her about strength and perseverance. And Nellie believed in that especially. She believed in herself.

The corner came into view and with a scampering that she never would have allowed a few minutes before, she made for it, for the relative safety of the people walking down the busy road. She would still die, maybe, if she went out there. But if she did the chance fell. And she was a smart girl. She knew what a compromise would look like.

A compromise would look like her walking away.

"Really?" The girls voice sounded from the shadows just before the corner, and Nellie bit down a scream of frustration and fear. She had been _so close_. She would have _made_ it if it hadn't been for that _damned_ girl and her friends. Bullies, _murderers._ "You don't think anyone would stop you out there if you left looking like," the brown haired girl stood out from behind the rubbish and grimaced as she looked at the girls outfit. " _That_."

Nellie whimpered and moved backwards. The girl sighed and pulled a gun up, apologetic as she prepped her finger over the trigger.

She was distracted for a moment as a boy, breathless and her age, came running down the alley, same way as Nellie had come. "You got her!"

"That's why I'm the best," she girl grinned, attention wavering for a moment as she greeted her friend.

"Why haven't you shot her yet?" The boy looked at his friend, and then giving that same apologetic half-smile to Nellie, still pinned up against the wall and frightened out of her wits.

"I was revelling in the moment! Come on, you _know_ how long this one's taken. I was surprised you wouldn't have been more excited for me."

The boy raised his eyebrows. "Bit inappropriate? To celebrate something's death?"

"Right, yeah," the girl nodded. "Sorry. Boundaries."

Both turned sharply as footsteps heralded the approach of someone else from the other side. But both relaxed when another girl, tall and strong with a head of curly hair span into the alley.  Nellie looked up hopefully, heart hammering with that word again, _compromise, compromise, compro—_ "Guys! I think she's—" Nellie felt her heart sink and saw the girls confusion as she saw Nellie as she was, pinned up against the wall, her two friends holding her. "Oh."

"Oh is right," the boy announced cockily. "I got her myself. Got my number 2 to hold the fort while I revelled in the moment."

"Aidan, no one even slightly believes that," the second girl told the boy tiredly, while the first just ignored him, keeping her gun carefully trained on Nellie, cutting off any idea of escape.

The second girl watched Nellie with more compassion. "You know, they say that there's a cure."

"They always say that," Gun Girl snorted, unmoved and jaded. "Don't you think that if there was a cure, a _real_ cure, we would have heard about it by now?"

Nellie looked at the second girl, imploring her to hold her ground, give Nellie just a bit more _time—_

"Besides, you've done the research as well as us," Aidan, the boy, said, watching Nellie the same as his friends, with that cold, apologetic non-compassion. "She's a murderer."

" _No_ ," Nellie tried to defend herself. "I'm _not,_ I _promise—_ "

"15 people in the past two years," the girl with the gun curled her lip in disgust, and Nellie dropped the act, relaxing and hitting her head back on the wall in annoyance. They knew, of _course_ they knew. Great. "She knows _exactly_ what she's done."

Nellie watched all of them, with a hint of boredom and tiredness. "Well? Gonna get on with it? So I can escape and we can all continue being each other's Arch Nemesis's?"

"What makes you think you're going to escape?" The girl, Krissy, Nellie was pretty sure, asked, with a tilted head and a cocked eyebrow.

"Because in the time that you've been _distracting_ yourselves, my friends have been gathering, ready for my escape," Nellie grinned, and looked at each of them, waiting for their reaction. That sweet reaction that always came when a Hunter was in over their head.

"Oh, really?" Josephine, the other girl, flashed her blood tipped knife as she put it back into her belt. "Damn. Krissy, Aidan, better get on with it, then."

"Yeah," Aidan agreed, pulled his gun out pointedly and holding it by his waist. "I'm running out of bullets as it is."

"Nellie, sweetheart," Krissy smiled directly to her. Her finger itched over the trigger and Nellie felt her pulse quicken. "We did our research. We know what a fucking _pack_ looks like."

"You, you _can't,_ they were—"

"They were murderers," Krissy's mouth was hard, and her eyes were dark in the shadows. "And so are you."

Nellie heard half the gunshot before her life ended, her own blood spilling across and mixing with the blood of her most recent victims, eating and bleeding into her ratty old shirt.

* * *

The policeman held the tape up for Sam and Dean to walk under as they made their way over to the house where they suspected the latest haunting had been occurring. The Ninth death of all the people who had died over the past 30 odd years; all of them from freak accidents.

The day was nice, the wind a balmy soothe down in High Rising, South Dakota. It was a blessedly small town, so there hadn't been many opportunities for the ghost to wreak its revenge, but whatever it was, it needed to be stopped.

"Oh, by the way," The officer, Johnston, his nametag read, turned to them and gestured over to where a few officers were gathered, a few with their hands on their hips, a few others carrying important looking folders. "We let some of the reporters from the local Community College come in, take a look around. They said that they were doing the recent death of Kate Walsh, seeing how it tied in with urban legend and stuff."

Dean didn't really have any problem, but Sam raised an eyebrow. "You're letting kids come onto a crime scene?"

"Well, I mean," Johnstone's tongue jerked out to lick his lip and he swallowed, Sam's height and strength an obvious deciding factor in how he decided to view the situation. "It's not a _crime_ scene, crime scene, you know?"

"Then why do you think that we're here?" Dean asked, thinking about the repercussion that a few college kids could have, and deciding he could do without the drunk Frats coming to try and test their luck with the haunted house while Dean and Sam tried to do their job. Dean gestured to himself and Sam and raised his eyebrows. "Federal Agents. To investigate an accident?"

Johnstone reddened and nodded. He cleared his throat and looked over to where the cops had gathered to talk to the kids. "I'll tell 'em to break it off. You can find your own way into the house?"

"Yep," Sam smiled, and Dean met his eye for a moment, as Johnstone was distracted by the gaggle of officers that only seemed to grow. He winced as the group unanimously roared out in laughter and giving each brother a nod and a smile, scurried over to the reporters.

"Ugh," Dean sighed, watching him go and hoping Johnstone would convince the kids that they didn't need to write the paper. "Just what we need. Our crime scene to become a Mystery Incorporated hotspot."

"I'm with you on that one," Sam grimaced as he watched the group. He sighed and tilted his head to Dean. "Ready?"

"Sure," Dean nodded, and together they crossed the grass to the building. The door was open, and traffic was a constant stream from coming out and going in. Sam and Dean dodged around it and pulled out from the door into the foyer, where the woman's body had been found 2 days ago. This was the final push for the last bits of evidence before they finished it up and called it a day. Dean thought that maybe the police would pick it up and try to put the evidence together, but in reality, it was unlikely. Even from his point of view, looking over the evidence didn't spark up anything suspicious. There was just how she fell, and the odd bruises along her body, though she lived alone. That would all be put down to how she fell, and the world would manage to convince itself, once more, that nothing existed beyond what they all believed.

Sam tugged the EMF reader from inside his pocket, and nodded at Dean to take to questioning one of the forensic team, who was hurrying around, taking final photos and scribbling in their notebooks.

"I'll go upstairs," Sam proffered his device. "Hunt around, see if I find anything."

"Nice plan," Dean readjusted his suit and looked at the milling forensics team, scurrying around like busy ants on a hot day. "I'll talk to the cleanup crew. See what they've got."

Sam nodded, and without any further conversation drifted off within the house, the EMF held in his grip as he made his way through the house.

Dean walked over to the one who seemed least busy, introducing himself and shaking the dudes hand. "Hi, I'm Agent Landy, visiting with Agent Ness. I was just coming over to ask, what can you tell me?"

"Michael Geoffrey," the man shook his hand and flashed a small smile. "FBI. Nice."

"Right, so, what exactly happened here?" Dean let his gaze slip around the room, looking more pointedly at the place where she had died.

"Woman, early 40's, fell from the second floor and broke her neck," Michael recited easily. He shrugged. "Seemed like an accident to me, but..."

"But what?" Dean asked, turning back to Michael and frowning. "You don't think so?"

"Well, you guys are here, aren't you?" Michael back up unconvincingly. "I mean, sure, it _looked_ like an accident, but the FBI doesn't investigate accidents and—"

"Hey, Mike," Dean smiled a humourless smile. "Tell me what you really think." Michael hesitated. " _Really_ think."

"Well, you know," Michael shifted, uncomfortable. Then he sighed. "No one's believed me this far, and I just thought..."

" _Mike_ ," Dean interrupted him.

"Right, yeah, sorry." Michael gathered himself to try again. "Ok. So, the barriers of the second floor are too high up for anyone to just 'fall'. It's an old house, but Kate Walsh was a smart woman. She had her second floor and kitchen redone in September of last year."

"So she's lived here a while?" Dean guessed, wondering what had triggered the ghost.

Michael nodded, enthused. "Right? Since August of last year, and that was only when she moved in. No one lived in it until she bought it with the money in her parents Will mid last year."

"So she _knew_ the house," Dean stressed.

"Top to bottom," Michael affirmed, still nodding. "If there was anything that was going to kill her, it wouldn't have been the stairs. It just seems like it was too perfect to be an accident."

"But what does that mean?" Dean asked. "Have there been any prints? Any DNA extracted from her clothes or—"

Michael cut him off with a curd, "No." He crossed his arms, looking peeved. "That's the problem with this. There's nothing but a little logic separating murder and accident."

"What about suicide?" Dean guessed, looking up to where she would have had to fall from, and wondering if, if someone _really_ wanted to end their life, they'd do it from such a small distance. If she'd landed any other way, then she wouldn't have died. Or, would have died much later in incredible agony.

Michael nodded seriously. "That is a possibility, and it would explain the sores that were definitely pre-mortem. But, I don't know." He sighed. "It just doesn't sit right with me. It's a small town, I saw her from time to time, and she always seemed happy to me. Maybe a little _over_ chipper, but happy all the same. And there's no proof in the house that she was self harming or that she was depressed."

"And you think murder," Dean finalised.

"A little more exciting, isn't it?" Michael said, enthusiastic again. "Murder, mayhem, a woman, dead in her own home. No leads, no clues."

"Doesn't sound like a very promising case," Dean said.

Michael frowned. "No."

"Alright, well, if there's anything else you can think of," Dean flipped out the card with his Fed number on it and offered it with a smile. "Don't hesitate to call, ok?"

"Right," Michael said, reaching out and grabbing it. He read over it, holding the one card in two hands. "Will do."

"Agent," Sam called across the room, and Dean looked up to see his brother giving him a pointed look. He shifted his arm, hand in his pocket, and Dean saw the bulge of the EMF hidden under the fabric.

Dean excused himself and walked over, looking at Sam questioningly. Sam nodded at his unasked question.

"How much?" Dean asked in a low voice when they were close enough to nearly whisper.

Sam looked intense. "A _lot,_ a lot. Whatever spirit decided to haunt this place is seriously pissed off."

"Great," Dean scowled and pushed a hand through his hair. "You get anything else?"

"No, just that," Sam shook his head. "You?"

"Woman's lived here a while, redid the second floor and kitchen mid to late last year," Dean trailed off. "I mean, this whole thing just seems super off."

"How so?"

"The woman, she died _months_ after she moved in," Dean explained. "It just seems odd that a ghost would be so patient, trying to be vengeful."

"We've had ghosts that have taken their time before," Sam shrugged. "Maybe this is just...that. Maybe it was waiting for something. _Maybe_ something Kate did or said triggered it."

"Maybe," Dean agreed, doubtfully. "Except it's never a couple of months. It's always a scattering of days, or decades. Half a year..." Dean looked up at Sam, who was thoughtful. "Tell me something smells off to you."

"It must have been a very specific trigger," Sam agreed, tightening his jaw as he grimaced. "Great."

"Well, figure out the trigger—"

"And we figure out our ghost," Sam smiled tightly.

* * *

Sam was the one who led Dean out of the building, so he was the one who saw them first. He stopped, dead still, surprised out of his mind with his mouth gaping open as he looked at them. They'd aged in the two years since they'd seen them, but not drastically enough to hide their youth or the features Sam memorised.

"Dean," Sam said warningly, and Dean turned, annoyed at Sam sudden stop, only to drop his irritation when he realised the cause.

"Son of a _bitch_ ," Dean swore, glaring at the trio, two girls and a guy standing, discussing seriously off to the corner.

The girl, dark haired, all attitude and all too familiar turned when she heard Dean's voice. She saw the brothers, eyes darting from Sam to Dean, and the expression on her face span from horrified to guilty to gloating. She nudged Aidan and Josephine and they both turned as well, a little more wary of the hunters who had all but ordered them to have ordinary lives.

Dean marched Sam over, and the little brother followed Dean across the grass to where Krissy and company stood, dressed up in their journalist outfits, clutching recording devices and notepads and standing perfectly still; content to let the Winchester brothers walk to them.

"Hey, Dean," Krissy smiled. "Nice to see that rumours of your death have been exaggerated."

"Thanks," Dean smiled tightly, looking from Krissy to Aidan, who slunk back under his glare, to Josephine, who too averted her eyes. "So, did you completely ignore everything I said as I said it, or just conveniently forgot a few days later?"

Krissy finally slipped out of her smarmy smile and crossed her arms uncomfortably across her chest. "Months, actually. We went to school, we ate our food, we did our dishes and prayed every night before we went to bed. But then the angels fell from the sky, and people were dying, and we weren't just going to sit around and watch."

"Well, the angels are back now," Dean told her, told each of them, furious.

"Uh, Dean—"

"Not now, Sam," Dean dismissed Sam easily, and Sam tried to beat down the bitter black irritation that came whenever Dean ignored him.

"No," Sam spat, and his word was forceful enough to turn Dean from the trio of hunters to look at Sam. "We're not doing this here. Let's go somewhere else."

"I agree," Krissy said, arms still crossed along her chest, but now as a play for power than a move of defence. "People are looking."

"Uh," Aidan piped in and looked nervously at Dean, and then at Sam. "Well, no one's actually _looki_ —"

"Shut up Aidan," Josephine rolled her eyes.

"Yeah," Krissy turned, but her tone was light, joking, and when she looked at the boy, the tightness of her arms eased as she smiled at him. "Shut up."

Aidan rolled his eyes, but matched her smile with his own.

Sam tried not to feel tired and bored and exasperated. But he couldn't help it. He was getting on, early 30's and already couldn't figure out how to use all the special features on his phone (although that might have had more to do with the fact that he hadn't been able to really look at it beyond entering Dean's and all the other emergency numbers than how old he was). Point was, Sam was getting on, and so he had a free pass when it came to being irritated when he saw young people in love.

It tugged at his heart and he forced himself not to think of Jess.

"How about a diner?" Sam suggested, placing his hand unconsciously nearer to his heart, looking at each of the kids expectantly. "I think I saw one on the drive in."

"Sounds good," Dean agreed for them forcefully, but Krissy and her friends seemed compliant anyway.

Krissy smiled, in an irritating, impertinent way that reminded Sam of Jo a little bit. "Can't wait to hear the specials."

* * *

Krissy parked their Corolla next to the impala and scowled when she saw the Winchesters cool muscle car in comparison to the one they'd picked for necessity off of the second hand car sale. One of the things that had drawn her to the life of a Hunter in the first place had been the old-fashioned charm entwined with the old-fashioned good vs. bad. She knew that most of what she had initially thought had been a heap of romanticisation layered on top of her irritation at being strung between having a normal life and being a good-to-go hunter, but still, some old desires never died. She wanted a mustang, or a '60 black mercury cougar.

For example.

"Ugh, do we have to do this?" Aidan asked, grimacing as he looked at the impala, deadly and menacing stretched out beside them. From where Krissy was sitting, she could see a series of anti-demon and anti-angel decoration along the inside, and a sprig of some evil repelling herb flung messily to the side. To anyone else, it wouldn't have looked like anything, but to her, it was enviable.

Messy cars and leather jackets, disguises, brotherhood, cracked old seats and the deep purr of an old car. _Hunting_ , as she saw it.

 An old house and a vile spirit, blood dripping down your chin and your heart bursting in your chest. That, was hunting as it really was. Without the rose coloured glasses.

"Yes, we have to do this," Krissy chided her boyfriend and took the opportunity to unbuckle her seatbelt and crack open the door. "Dean and Sam are our friends. We need them, if we wanna crack this case."

"No, we don't," Josephine leaned forward, head sticking between the passenger seat and Krissy. "We really do not have to. Can't we just go?"

"What, and leave the case?" Krissy raised her eyebrow, one leg out the door, looking at both of her unwilling friends with a raised eyebrow. "Never took you to be such a wimp, Josie."

"I'm _not_ ," Josephine denied angrily, pushing back and landing on her seat with a _whump_. "I just don't get why we can't leave this one to the professionals."

" _We're_ the professionals now," Krissy reminded them. She took a moment and sighed, looking at Aidan, who still had his seatbelt on, and Josephine, who was staring moodily off into the distance. "Look, the Winchesters, they're scary, but they're really just giant teddy bears. Ok? They love us. They're our biggest fans."

"They hate us, and they want us to leave," Aidan corrected her.

Krissy looked through the front window and into the Diner, where Sam and Dean were already sitting, across from each other and reading the menu. Sam pointed something out to Dean, and Dean laughed, tilting his head back. Sam grinned at Dean as he did it, and Krissy felt her gut twist when she thought about how _her_ 'family' was acting now.

When was the last time _they_ had laughed like that?

Not since the angels had fallen and they'd picked up where they'd left off. All the hunting training had come back to them as easily as breathing. And the laughter and youthfulness that they'd managed to retain throughout everything had slid off soon after that.

"Come _on_ ," Krissy was forceful. "I'm in charge, and I say we go."

Without looking to see if they were following, she kicked open the door and stood out, slamming it shut and walking across the path to the diner.

The bell tinkled overhead as she made her way through the door, catching before it closed when Aidan stuck his arm out. Krissy paused and shot him a grateful smile. She delayed for a moment so that both he and Josephine would fall into step with her, and the three of them advanced to the Winchesters table.

Sam saw them first, and he nodded to Dean. Krissy felt that tug of envy when she saw that he didn't even look back, didn't even need to double check. His belief in his brother was paramount, it was legendary.

She just _wanted_ it. She _wanted_ trust and devotion and pure, undying loyalty. Without the mess of how they'd been brought together with Josephine and Aidan. But she had no siblings, and her father was dead. So she just let her jealousy fester, and tried not to take it out on her boyfriend and best friend.

"Dean, Sam," Krissy greeted them with an easy smile, Aidan and Josephine bringing up the rear. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Krissy," Sam gave back, smiling his polite, perfect smile and sliding along his seat to make room. "Aidan, Josephine."

"Hey, kids," Dean joined in with his brother, but his patronizing tone puckered Krissy's smile and she slid in next to Sam, leaving Josephine to slide in next to Dean and Aidan to huddle awkwardly on the end of the seat next to her.

"Let's make this quick," Krissy told the brothers. "We've got a spirit to stop. Town to save. A few bones to burn. You know how it is."

"Sure do," Dean agreed amicable, downing his glass of coffee. "Can we get you anything? On us, obviously."

"We're good," Krissy answered for Josephine and Aidan, both of whom seemed a little disgruntled after she took the reins. "We just wanna hear the lecture and then get our noses back to the trail." She glared at Dean when he seemed unhurried. "And _save lives_."

"Seems like we have a goal in common, then," Sam supplied. "Because this spirit isn't some cute, casper thing, Krissy. This thing is the real deal. We haven't seen anything like this in _years_."

"Should'a looked a little harder then," Krissy felt herself being rude and commanding, but did nothing to stop it. Maybe if the brothers convinced themselves that she was just an insolent kid, they'd let her off with a warning and not try and change her, Aidan and Josephine's minds. "We've taken down plenty just like it."

"Have you?" Dean asked, unserious, humorous. Krissy wanted to scratch his face off.

He had the perfect hunting partner, the perfect hunting car, the perfect hunting body, smile, gender, gun, clothes, friends, weapons and spells. The best reputation alongside his brother and direct enemies at a Hellish and Heavenly level. Where was _he_ to look at _her_ like that? Couldn't he see that she only wanted what he had?

That perfect, awful life?

The _romance_ of orphan boys travelling the world in their shiny black car, the sound of the wind and the rubber of the wheels screeching along asphalt, of candles shuddering against a supernatural wind, the only barrier between them and the dark.

Dean's face melted from gloating to thoughtful as he took in her glare, and he didn't say anything more, no snarky comments, just a dark, worried glance in her direction.

"Look," Sam said, bracing his hands on the table, either side of his coffee. "Thing is, for the record, we're not mad that you're hunting. We're mad that you didn't listen to us, when we told you _not_ to hunt."

"So, you _are_ made at us for hunting," Josephine deadpanned.

Sam paused for a second. "You know what I mean."

"No, we don't—"

"Aidan," Sam advised. "Shut up."

Aidan gaped his mouth open for a minute before shutting it, not wanting to test Sam's patience.

"You guys are college aged," Sam reminded them. "None of you can even drink yet. You really want to be spending your defining years as a hunter? Let other people do this job; go _make_ something of yourself."

"Like what?" Krissy demanded suddenly, sick of it. _Sick of it_. Who were _they_ to sit up there, high and mighty, and judge her, Josephine and Aidan for something they _themselves_ did? "An office worker? You want us to just pack up and move on, as though this world didn't kill our parents? You keep acting like it's all so _simple_ , but it's _not_." She looked around and saw Sam, having passed through surprise at her outburst, watching her with large, sad eyes, and Dean more reserved, but silent and respectful all the same. "You can't just expect us to know the things we know, and have fought the things we've fought, and then just _forget_ about it!"

"Krissy—"

"There's a vampire cure," Krissy told them, snapped at them. "Remember that? You showed us it. It helps people. Wanna know how many hunters know that the vampire cure works?"

Krissy crossed her arms and leaned back. "How many have you told, yourselves?"

More silence, and her point was made.

"Not many, is the answer. Not enough." Aidan and Josephine were watching her with wide eyes. They'd seen her rant, of course. But never at this level of passion, never at something that hit so close to home. "And then, how many actually _use_ the cure? How many forgo the much easier option of just killing the poor sucker than creating some complicated potion?"

More silence. Sam was looking down, almost ashamed, but Dean was still watching her, eyes weary and careful. She realised that Dean respected her, respected Josephine and Aidan, perhaps might have _always_ respected them. But she'd just forced him to show it.

"How many take the _damn_ time to _ask_ if the things killed anyone before they cut its _freaking_ neck off?" Krissy demanded. "Almost _none_. I _know_ how messed up the hunting community is." Krissy swallowed bitterly, thinking about her father, about Victor, about her fucked up life. " _Believe_ me, we know."

Josephine looked down, eyes caught on the table in front of her, and Aidan's head tilted, neck strained, hands cupped in his lap as if in prayer.

"We're just trying to even out the scales," Krissy finished tiredly. She looked up at Dean, and then across to Sam. "We're just tryna be the good guys."

All fell silent after Krissy's outburst, and as she bowed her head, she saw Josephine look across at her, tears in her eyes, a small smile on her lips.

Neither Sam next to her nor Dean across from her moved or spoke.

Not until Dean took it upon himself to clear his throat. "You're still kids—" Krissy jerked her head up in anger, and he looked at her warningly, raising his hands "— _but_..." He trailed off and sighed. "It's your choice."

The three words, his blessing, rang through Krissy's head. She would have continued with or without it, but now it felt official. Now it felt like they were important, felt like they were _someone_ , felt like they could become _something_.

"Ok," Krissy nodded. "Thank you. Ok."

"Five people," Sam threw her brother a small, dark smile. "That's plenty for a hunt of this, uh, calibre."

Dean rolled his eyes and drained his coffee. And despite it all, Krissy still felt that pang of jealousy. They were so _comfortable_ together. She still felt awkward asking Josephine to buy her tampons when they were stopped at a gas station. "Right, so, splitting up."

"Josephine and I will go to library," Aidan offered, looking to Krissy who nodded her agreement.

"Awesome," Dean flashed a fake smile. "Sam and I have a date with Kate Walsh's architect about the designs she added onto the house to see if he knows about anything sacred she might have soiled. So, Krissy, what does that leave you with?"

"Looking over the body," Krissy told him, straight faced.

"Nice to know we're speeding through this one," Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Mhm," Dean agreed.

* * *

"Kids are the worst," Dean scowled as they pulled out of the park from the diner, watching as Krissy, Aidan and Josephine gathered around their car. Sam watched them as they drove, feeling something deep in his chest turn every time he thought about how they lived, how they were living. How young they were. The way he and Dean were raised, the way that they had been living, the way that they were living _now_... he wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy.

"They're not that bad."

"I know. I wasn't being literal."

Sam fell silent, and Dean looked over, distracted for a moment as he pulled out into traffic. "Hey? Sammy? What's wrong."

"I'm—"

"You are _not_ fine," Dean corrected, agitated. "And I swear to God, If I hear you say that _one more time_ —"

" _Fine_ ," Sam said, tired, fed up, _sad_. "I'll tell you. Do you really want to do this? You sure you don't need some higher form of entertainment to get you through the day?"

Dean barked a humourless laugh. "Oh, _that's_ rich. I'm tryna _help_ Sammy. It's not _my_ fault you've taken on some freakin' martyrs burden and refuse to tell _anyone_ what's going on in that _freaky_ little head of yours—"

"My _freaky_ little head?"

"Yeah, your _freaky_ —"

"How the hell is this supposed to make me feel better?" Sam demanded. "Christ! We can't go three days without you reminding me that I'm a freak. Well, how about we talk about how it's not _my fault_ that you got some drop kick angel to possess me, or that you don't let me forget _anything_ I do, but whenever you do something there's always a _million_ reasons why what you did was _pious_ and _good_ and _worth it._ "

"Can we not do this?" Dean asked, sighing, sitting back in his seat and nearly crumpling in on himself. "We've had this argument a million times. Can we just..."

Sam didn't respond, still _angry_. That anger, the one that had been so tasteful to the devil, wasn't gone. It simmered below the surface, carefully controlled but always there. But for his sake, he need to let it go. For his brother, who he had forgiven. Who had had to make a series of impossible decisions.

_Who he had forgiven._

"I'm..." Sam blinked. "I'm sorry."

"It's ok, Sammy," Dean responded tiredly, quietly, barely heard over the purring of the impala's engine. "You're allowed to be mad."

"No, it's just..." Sam looked down at his hands, the fingers idly tapping over each other in his lap. "I can't be bothered to eat any more. Isn't that weird? I can't be bothered to _eat_. And it's not that I'm not hungry, because I am, I just..." Sam trailed off, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet, sombre. "I can't be _bothered_. Because what is there to eat for, really? What is there—"

"Hey," Dean interrupted him loudly and pulled roughly to the side of the road. Sam blinked in surprise and turned to Dean, who was angry, red angry, and desperate. "Don't you talk like that, Sam. You really think that there's nothing left to live for? To fight for? I thought you understood, that we fight for each other, now, Sam," Dean looked at him, almost begging. "You _have_ to see, you _have_ to, that when there's nothing left, when the road's emptyin' and no one seems to be home, and all your cards are falling to the floor; _family_ is all that's left."

Sam didn't say anything, he just stared. Dean was almost embarrassed, turning back to the road and starting up the Impala again.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah," Sam tried, swallowed and nodded slowly, watching the world outside the window as the car picked up speed. "Yeah, I'm alright." He glanced at Dean and then looked quickly back out the window. "I'm sorry. I'll try harder."

"You don't have to be sorry, Sam," Dean told him. Dean gave Sam a defeated, long look. "But you _are_ going to have to try harder."

* * *

"You look a little young to be FBI," the Coroner frowned as he led Krissy through the door and into the morgue.

Krissy just gave an abashed smile and held her hand over her heart. "Oh my, thank you!"

* * *

"Search 'freaky shit'," Aidan ordered, and Josephine complied,  but not without an eye roll. They'd been at it for ages, and nothing had come up. There were no documented murders in the house, no suicides, not even narrowing the search to infanticide or fratricide had done anything. So they'd started with other things, the first of these other things being Aidan's 'freaky shit' suggestion.

"Freaky shit," Josephine spelt out as she typed it into the computer, sighing at her life and the people in it as the ancient computer loaded. "Right, so, when this ultimately fails—"

"Whoa, what about that?" Aidan pointed to the screen, and narrowing her eyes Josephine leaned closer and then her eyes widened, sitting straight up and keeping her mouse hovering over the link.

"I think this is the one," she breathed, double clicking the hyper link and reading through the articles quickly, light from the computer lighting along her cheeks.

"Yes! High five!"

"No way."

"Please?"

"Just because you're my best friends boyfriend doesn't mean I have to like you. Down, boy."

"You're kind of mean."

"You're kind of annoying. I'm printing the information now, can you call Krissy?"

"Fine, fine. Whatever."

* * *

"And so along the sternum you see that there's a bunch of post mortem injury, which leads us think that perhaps Kate was already dead before—"

Krissy started when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She dug it out, and smiled apologetically to the Coroner as she checked it. She nodded slightly as she read the caller ID.

"I'm sorry, I really have to take this. I'll be right back."

Krissy hurried off to a corridor and pulled the phone out. So far in the Coroner's office she'd met the Coroner, heard what the man knew about Kate Walsh's accident and assured three separate people that the FBI was just following up some worrying claims made by members of the community over the recent Walsh death. It would spawn some gossip but was ultimately harmless, and for all the police knew, it was true.

"Hey you," she smiled as she spoke, and though it made her sound super unprofessional, she couldn't help it. Aidan was infuriating, and acted 5 years old most of the time, but he was _her_ infuriating 5 year old.

Which made her sound like a oddly appreciative mother with a kid that acted out, so she stopped that train of thought pretty quickly.

" _Hey babe_ ," Aidan replied, and Krissy's mood was ruined. Babe, possibly the most aggravating pet name in all of eternity. And Aidan knew Krissy hated it as well. All part of the charm.

"What've you got, Steve McQueen?" Krissy rolled her eyes and tucked her hand under her elbow as she stood with her phone pressed to her ear. "Please don't tell me this one of those times where you just call, call me babe and then hang up, because I just told the Coroner that this was really important and—"

" _Babe, are you attracted to the Coroner?_ "

Krissy could hear Josephine yelling angrily in the background and bit her lip to keep from smiling.

" _Right, sorry Krissy. Josephine's angry at me now_ ," Aidan's voice was laced with the same smile that Krissy found herself fighting. God, her boyfriend was such a doofus. " _Alright. So we think we have something. House hasn't been haunted all that long, right? People only really started dying in the 80's."_

"Right," Krissy frowned, nodding. "But that was because—"

" _No one owned the house between the Depression and the 80's. Right_ ," Aidan finished for her.  " _But why? Do you know what happened to the family before that time_?"

"No?" Krissy frowned, then blinked. "Uh, no. We never found out."

" _It was never really publicised,_ " Aidan explained. " _Because the world didn't have the internet, which is not a good enough fucking excuse by the way._ "

" _Aidan_!" Josephine's chastise came small and tinny through Krissy's phone.

" _Sorry_ ," Aidan replied absently, holding the phone away from his mouth and then bringing it close again. " _It was also kept pretty quiet by the police of the time. Ok, so, we did a little digging around and...Jeez. Am I glad that this guy didn't exist during our time._ "

"Just because you don't hear about him doesn't mean he doesn't exist," Krissy reminded him quickly. "But whatever. What did he do?"

" _There are dozens of accounts about this family from Scotland who moved down after the first world war and bought the house a few months before their daughter was born,_ " Aidan explained.

"Why didn't this come up when we searched the house?" Krissy demanded.

" _Because no one knows what happened,_ " Aidan told her tersely. " _And the father, the husband, Jerry Rudd, was possibly one of the most scary human beings I've ever read about. Here, listen to this,"_ Krissy chewed onto her fingernail as she heard paper being rustled. " _'Many citizens of High Rising'—that's the town we're in, in case you were wondering—"_ Krissy rolled her eyes but didn't interrupt him. " _'Have expressed concerns for the upkeep and wellbeing of the Lady and daughter Rudd, claiming to see bruises and cuts on both person. They also seem visually afraid of Mr. Rudd when seen in public. However, these claims were never backed up with fact and' yadda yadda yadda. You get the idea._ "

"So Rudd was abusive," Krissy agreed. "Doesn't mean that he killed them."

" _Except that all of them, mother, father, daughter, all disappeared without a trace about a year after all the complaints were filed_ ," Aidan explained. " _There were a lot of theories, but the police kept it quiet and nothing was really done_."

"Why?" Krissy wrinkled her nose.

" _Well, they were immigrants, I guess, and people were like, totally xenophobic back then_ ," Aidan said. " _Mr Rudd had a wooden leg or something, people thought that Mrs. Rudd might have conceived the daughter, Violet, before the two had gotten married. And I guess missing was easier to deal with than 'Murdered by the man of the house'."_

"True," Krissy sighed and ran a hand over the back of her neck. "Alright, can you call Dean and tell him everything you just told me? I've got to wrap it up here."

" _Um_."

Krissy groaned and stomped her foot. " _Seriously,_ Aidan? Just _call_ him."

" _Krissy, he's terrifying._ "

"Call Sam then."

A pause. " _Ok, nice compromise_."

"I'll see you back at the motel, ok?" Krissy said, with a touch too much emotion in her voice for it to be a passing remark.

" _Of course_ ," Aidan said, slightly too softly, slightly too personally. And Krissy felt a thrill run down her spine. " _See you, Krissy._ "

She hung up and smiled to herself, pressing her phone to her lips for a moment. He was an idiot, and he was hers. Her person in the universe.

"Ok," she ordered herself, and she tucked her phone into her pocket and, turning on her heel, marched down the hall to the morgue.

* * *

"Right," Sam nodded, looking down at the designs. "And there's no way she could have fallen?"

The architect was a glasses wearing perfectionist named Victoria, who was dead set against the idea that her designs could have allowed for Walsh's death. Sam couldn't tell if she was denying because she was worried about being held liable or if she just was _certain_ that there was no way someone could fall down her stairs, but either way he was getting nowhere.

Sam felt his phone buzz and seeing Aidan's number flash up, he handed it off to the Dean, who, smirking, waved apologetically at the Architect and moved off to another room, greeting Aidan with a cheery hello as he walked.

Victoria blinked. "I'm..."

"Don't worry," Sam told her. "He just answers my calls, because I'm the senior agent. It's a new thing the bureau's implementing." He smiled. "I'm quite enjoying it, actually."

"Sounds a little cruel," Victoria blinked, pushing a nervous hand through her hair.

"Yeah," Sam agreed absently. "Now, Ms. Francis, I must remind you, anything you say would only ever be used as evidence. You will not be prosecuted for telling me anything."

Victoria Francis nodded slowly. "Ok. I understand. I do."

"Right, good," Sam smiled at her.

"But what I said before still stands," Victoria told him, serious. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "Well, not to the extreme that I put it. But the railing at the top of those stairs, they were high enough that if you were gonna fall from the landing, it wouldn't be a fall."

"What would it be?"

Victoria gave him a 'seriously?' look and Sam stood up a little taller to combat the sudden feeling of inadequacy. "No, sir. She'd have to jump, or be pushed."

"Ok," Sam nodded and let his gaze fall across the plans for the renovations to the house. "And the kitchen, what can you tell me about that?"

Victoria looked caught off guard, but she answered nonetheless. "Well, not much. She did the kitchen up a little before work started on the stairs. She said that she wanted at least a working stove before she attacked the rest of the house."

"Oh, so the kitchen wasn't the last thing she was redoing?" Sam blinked in surprise.

Victoria looked equally caught off guard. "What? No, of course not. You didn't know that?"

"No, no I didn't," Sam grimaced and turned to the plans. "What else was there?"

"Well the only things confirmed was the redoing of the third bedroom and redoing the plumbing in the master bedrooms ensuite,"

"When was the work for that due to start?" Sam asked, intense, worried, wondering what was missing and praying to God that Aidan and Josephine had found something that worked with this.

Victoria noticed his change of tone, but she didn't comment. She just answered quickly, and to the best of her ability. Sam wished he met more interviewees like her in his life of forgery and crime. "The work was supposed to start in a week, but Kate told me that she would be pulling up the carpet herself to save costs. I don't know when she started to do that."

"Where was she pulling up the carpet? In the third bedroom?" Sam demanded, and Victoria nodded hastily.

"Yes, yes. The ensuite was going to be a few weeks after that," Victoria rattled off.

Dean took that moment to appear, expression just as tense as Sam's.

"Sammy, we've got some—"

"Same here," Sam said tersely, looking back to Victoria Francis and giving her a thankful smile. "You don't mind if we see ourselves out, do you?"

"Uh, n... no, by all means," Victoria managed, watching them both, eyes wide behind her glasses.

Sam nodded to Dean and together they hurried out the door, waving behind them, with empty promises to call her to follow up on  anything they were unclear on.

The door banged shut behind them and they walked quickly in synch to the Impala. Dean related the story quickly to Sam, leaving out any of the unnecessary pop culture references Aidan had dropped to test if Dean was relevant and edgy.

They slammed the doors of the impala and Dean pulled away from the curb, leaving Victoria's office in their rear vision mirror as they drove back to High Rising.

"Well, that sort of fits," Sam said, frowning. "Because if they three of them died in that house, then one of them might still be haunting it. No bodies were ever found?"

"None," Dean said grimly.

Sam groaned. "We all know what that means."

"Breaking and Entering is only illegal if you get caught," Dean reminded him brightly, tapping him on the shoulder and smiling as they drove off through the country. Sam just eased back into the leather seat and worked his way through all the information they'd figured out.

* * *

"So, in the end, it was Krissy who was the least helpful," Aidan grinned, and the rest of the group shot him exasperated looks.

Krissy just rolled her eyes and continued with her pacing, up and down while everyone gathered in the room she, Josephine and Aidan were sharing.

"Well, I think that's enough thinking for one night," Dean said, clapping his hands to his knees, standing. He was eager to be out of his monkey suit and equally excited for a beer and to run down the information with Sam in a place where no one could hear him.

"Sam said that Kate was refurbishing the third bedroom," Josephine shrugged. "Maybe that was the baby's room, so now she haunts whoever touches it."

"Mmm," Krissy mulled over, frowning, thinking. "Maybe. Seems like an off thing for an infant to do."

"Sometimes babies make the most violent spirits," Dean told them, sitting back and resigning himself to a night full of discussion. "All that innocence turned to wrath is a dangerous thing. Crowley, King of Hell, told us that they don't make deals with babies because the innocence reeks in the pit."

"And we're going to trust this Crowley guy?" Josephine demanded, looking at Dean disbelieving. "The king of Hell. The enemy to just about everyone. That guy?"

Dean took a quick look to where Sam was sitting and cleared his throat. "Yeah. We are."

Sam shifted, uncomfortable, but not enough to interject, so Aidan just coughed in the uncomfortable silence that followed.

"So, we've got all we can think of, I reckon," Dean shrugged, finally breaking the quiet. "I say we revisit this in the morning when everyone's fresh and ready to tackle the day."

"We can't go to the house tomorrow, cops will be there," Krissy frowned at them, suspecting they were up to something, but didn't call them out on it. "We'll have to go tonight." Dean had stood again, and Krissy glared at him until he sat down.

"There aren't going to be cops, because they said they were clearing up today," Sam reminded them all diplomatically. "Now, I think Dean's right—"

"Did you get a plan of the house?" Krissy tilted her head.

"I, uh, yeah?"

"Can you give it to me, please?" Krissy held out her hand, and, reluctantly, Sam pulled out one of Victoria's blueprints and handed it over to the expectant girl.

She smiled and her friends exchanged glances. "Thanks."

"No problem," Dean patted her on the head as he and Sam walked to the door. "See you crazy kids tomorrow."

"No problem," Krissy agreed, docile, not even rebuffing Dean's coddling. "We'll wake you, or you'll wake us. Whatever's easiest."

Dean and Sam exchanged a look, but they were gone quickly after that, gone as if they'd never been there.

"They were in a hurry," Aidan commented, watching the recently closed door with a frown.

"They always are," Krissy agreed, spreading the new map across the table, flattening it with Josephine's laptop, pulling out the map that they'd found on the internet before they'd come down to investigate High Rising. They were of obviously different style and intellects; everything about the newer one was better. Clearer lines, typed instructions and notes, the whole nine yards. The older one was a little more soiled, a scanned copy that someone had uploaded to an old architecture enthusiasts blog.

Krissy eyes narrowed as she scanned both of them side by side. There was something wrong. Something obviously different.

Her eyes flew open as she realised what had happened. Of course, if the bodies were hidden _there_ , if no one even _knew_ —

"Did you find something?" Josephine guessed, watching her friends face light up.

"Yes," Krissy nodded quickly, packing both maps and tucking them into her pocket. "Josie, tie your hair back. We're leaving now."

"What?" Aidan asked, utterly lost. "What's going on?"

"I'll explain in the car," Krissy was a little breathless as she pulled her jacket on and checked her gun, counting the bullets. She stowed some salt rounds into her pocket and grabbed a sawed off from the end of her bed.

"What about Sam and—"

"If I know the Winchester brothers, and I like to think I do," Krissy loaded the sawed off and clutched at it as she dug her feet into a pair of boots. She looked up to Josephine and Aidan, neither of whom had moved as she'd started to get ready. "Then they're already on their way to the house."

"What? Why wouldn't they wait for us?" Josephine demanded, rising to her feet in anger and surprise. She used the momentum to start copying Krissy, grabbing her own gun and an iron knife that she stuff into a sheath down the side of the boots she now was thankful that she hadn't had the time to take off. Aidan followed her lead and started to run around collecting his own things, throwing on a jacket and loading his gun.

"Because they're the Winchesters," Krissy answered bitterly, checking her lighter, flicking it on and satisfying herself that there was enough fuel to serve its purpose. "And they think they need to save everyone."

* * *

Sam and Dean cracked the front door open, and both shivered as a hiss of wind seared down through the land, crunching at their joints and teasing the ends of their hair. Sam made easy work of the lock, and Dean marched in first, holding his torch up in an attack formation, one hand grasping his gun loaded with iron rounds.

"See anything?" Sam asked, following in after and feeling his heart pick up when he saw how dark it was inside. The windows had been boarded up, but the moon was behind a swarm of clouds that night anyway. Any signs of civilisation had been left down the road, and Sam would have been lying if he didn't feel like he was being watched. Eyes glaring down at him from the walls, spiders crawling across his skin.

"Nothing," Dean answered, no nonsense and deft as he always was whenever they hunted.

"This is so creepy, dude," Sam muttered, flicking his own torch on and closing the door behind him. The light flickered down the hallway, shining along old, deep brown wood and freaky accurate depictions of people from a time long before now.

"A good old fashioned haunting," Dean had the tone of a man revisiting a favourite boyhood holiday destination. He took in a deep breath and let it go with exaggerated relish. "Now all we need is a naked woman and it'll be half the deal."

"Of what? Do you want to deal with the Shining?" Sam demanded, looking around quickly when the house shuddered, that cold wind from outside picking up. His voice had lost some of the strength when he followed up his sentence. "Because not even _I_ could deal with the Shining."

"That's because you're terrible at Scary movies," Dean told him. "You're a hunter. Just imagine the outcome if you were there instead of them, and see what happens."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to try and empathise with a horror movie victim," Sam deadpanned, keeping his gun and torch up as he looked around the room. If the ghost was the baby, then it could sneak under his beam of light.

"Your loss," Dean said, his voice still easy, still casual. Sam, not for the first time, wished he could capture just an inch of the essence Dean seemed to exude. That easy confidence in their world; what Sam would pay for that.

Of course, the one time he had tried to be more like Dean, he had ended up drinking Demon blood and nearly losing his soul.

So perhaps it was best to be himself. Because God knew he couldn't handle anything more than that.

"Where to first, Inspector?" Dean asked, grinning.

"I, was, uh—"

Their guns slipped quickly into their hands as the door started to rattle. They crossed the floor so that they were shoulder to shoulder, and Sam felt the trigger with the tip of his finger.

He could hear Dean's breathing uneven and ragged next to him and he remembered that Dean's front was just that, a front. And that he did it for Sam's benefit.

The rattling stopped, and then picked up with renewed fury. Sam felt more and more ready to fire. More and more eager to just _stop_ whatever was waiting for him on the other side.

The door banged open and Sam nearly shot before he recognised the shouts of the three people who stumbled in.

Dean did as well. " _Krissy_? What the _hell_?"

"What do you mean, _What the hell_?" Krissy mimicked, dropping her voice lower and putting her hand on her hip. "What happened to 'We'll talk about it in the morning'?"

Dean backed down at that, rubbing his hand across the back of his head. "Yeah, sorry about that one."

"How did you even know we were here?" Sam asked them, watching as Josephine flicked on her own light and Aidan made a disgusted face at the same paintings that Sam had been affronted by.

"Because you two are the most predictable people in the universe," Krissy informed them, holding her shotgun over her shoulder and raising her eyebrows at the brothers. "Oh and seriously, what did you _think_ was going to happen when you showed up here without a real plan?"

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, looking at Josephine, who just gave him a look.

"Where are the bodies, Dean?" Krissy crossed her arms across her chest.

"We thought..." Sam knew whatever Dean was going to say was going to be wrong. "Maybe in the walls?"

"Nope," Krissy uncrossed her arms and put them on her hips again. "We went over the plans for the houses, new and old. Wanna know what we found out?"

Both Winchesters frowned in thought and then, at once, they looked at each other in their excitement. "The attic!"

Krissy frowned. "Wait, how—"

"Of course," Sam nodded, ignoring Krissy and turning to Dean. "That would explain why the bodies weren't found, _and_ why the Gardeners were killed in the 80's. They put wall paper on the ceiling of the top floor, but they _never_ said why. I thought it was some sort of weird hippy thing—"

Dean nodded. "Yes. Yeah. That would make sense."

"So," Sam looked around, to Krissy who looked peeved that they'd figured out her clue, Aidan, who was still distracted by the awful paintings and then Josephine, who was idly playing with one of her curls, that had escaped her bunched ponytail. "To the attic?"

"To the attic," Dean affirmed, grinning.

And at that, all the lights smashed off, and darkness flung itself out from where it had been crouching.

"DEAN!"

"Sam! Damn it, Sam, grab a hold of me, come on!"

"Josie? AIDAN! JOSEPHINE!"

"Krissy, I'm right here, I'm here, please—"

"Hold my hand, come one, where's Aidan?"

"Krissy?"

"Sam?"

"Yes, yeah, are you ok?"

"Me and Josie are fine, but we can't find Aidan."

"We'll find him, don't worry, Kris—whoa," Dean blinked and looked around as their torches, which had fallen to the ground in their haste suddenly flickered back on The world was still dusky, but they could see each other's faces, and Krissy's was pinched and terrified as she looked around.

Dean looked at Sam who gave a quick nod and stooped to pick his own torch. Dean looked at Krissy, who was shaking, clutching at her sawed off with white knuckles. Josephine looked like she was going into shock, her lips slightly parted as she looked around, as desperate as Krissy was that they find their friend.

"We'll get Aidan back, Krissy," Dean told her in a low, comforting voice.

Krissy's face was still white, and whiter still under the glare of the torch light. "Promise? Do you promise?"

"I—"

"Dean," Sam said, in a low voice, warningly.

Dean ignored him. "Of course. I promise."

* * *

Krissy held the map with shaking hands and though it was hard to make the fainter lines out under the bad lighting, they knew that they stood under it. Stood under the attic.

If Aidan was going to be anywhere, it was in here.

"Ok—" Krissy frowned at Dean, who was looking, transfixed at the far wall, blood drawing from his face as he stared down the hall. "What—"

"No! No," Krissy," Dean darted forward and hugged her to him, so that she couldn't turn around, so that she couldn't run away. She felt her breathing pick up, and pick up again, and she was breathing hard into Dean's jacket. All she could smell was gunpowder and the sweet ointment he treated the seats of the Impala with.

She let herself get carried away in it, and she started to sob. " _No, no_."

"Oh, oh my _God_ ," Josephine had turned, and Sam had let her, watching her with vacant eyes as she let her torchlight catch what Dean had seen. She made retching noises and Krissy buried herself further into Dean's shirt, shaking and crying and _begging_. She had to look at some point.

She had to look at some point.

Krissy felt her breathing hitch again when she pulled away from Dean and Dean stood beside her as she looked down the corridor. She felt her throat seize, her heart beat madly and desperately in her chest. She felt _sick_.

Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. She would have never been ready to pull away from Dean and seen what the writing on the wall had said.

"We should have burned the building," Sam said in a low voice, and Krissy felt like crying all over again.

Aidan. Strung up with his arms and legs spread across the wall. But his eyes were open and staring, and his throat was ripped red and raw, and his skin was white and still, and Krissy knew that if she went to touch him, he'd be cooling rapidly against the chill of the night.

_We should have burnt the building._

Krissy thought she heard a high keening, something high pitched and drenched in fury and grief, and when Dean clutched at her, she realised that it was her. That she was making those noises.

"Krissy, Krissy," Josephine called and Krissy fell into her friends embrace, shaking uncontrollably and staring unseeingly over Josephine's shoulder. There was nothing but darkness in front of her, nothing but wood and worms. And if she squinted, there was no ghost either. No warning painted up for them, covered in her boyfriends blood.

He was her _it_. Her special person in the universe.

And now he was gone.

"There's a Heaven, Krissy," Dean told her softly, tiredly, and Krissy knew that it was supposed to comfort her, that he'd have some life after this death, but it didn't. Because he was gone from _her_. And grief was strictly selfish.

Krissy looked at the Winchester brothers, at their vacant, unseeing eyes and the way that they stood. Like all their apologies had been wasted on other things, and how they didn't comfort her. How there was distance between them.

So Krissy thought. Like she hadn't in a while. She thought about the brothers and their sadness, about the way they looked at each other sometimes, like they couldn't believe that the other was still there, in every sense of the word. She thought about Sam's soft heart and his hard hands and the way Dean would look at her sometimes. Like he wished her the best. The best in everything.

She thought about the rumours, about what Sam had been through, about what Dean had been through. What the world had been saved from. How much they were owed and how little they took.

Krissy _didn't_ want that life.

She felt hands at her back and realised that they were leading her out. She didn't fight against them, and from the shirt and the smell—motel soap and the same leathery grit as his brother—Sam was holding her as she walked.

She didn't remember leaving the house. She didn't remember Dean kicking the door down. She didn't remember Josephine holding her hand and murmuring small things to her over and over again.

But she did remember standing out on a hill nearby that old building and watching the whole thing go up in smoke. She remembered not caring which of the family had killed Aidan, just that they all burned in Hell. Just that the fire that burned their bodies would continue for all eternity.

She felt oddly at peace though, when she looked up at the house and imagined that the sparks of flame were gatherings of Aidan's soul, drifting upwards, putting on a show, calling out to her,  even as he died.

* * *

"Hey," Dean smiled as he edged into the motel room, and Krissy looked up from where she was packing. She'd done Aidan's things, and knowing that she'd need to throw them out soon had done nothing to the perfection of her folding abilities. "Can I talk to you?"

"Sure," Krissy folded her shirt and stuff it into her rucksack, clearing a pile of clothes and sitting beside her things. Dean walked over Josephine's bags and sat opposite Krissy, atop Josie's messed up covers.

But Krissy thought Dean probably didn't mind, in the light of all that had happened, she assumed she was allowed to leave her room a little messy.

"Are you ok?" Dean asked earnestly. "Normally its Sam's job to do the emotional stuff, but..." He let it drop and stared at her, hard. "But Krissy, are _you_ ok?"

"I'm still going to hunt, if that's what you mean," Krissy tilted her head and smiled a little as Dean tried half heartedly to deny that that had been his real reason for speaking to her. "Me and Josephine, our own little family."

"Krissy, I _know_ what that sort of grief does to a person," Dean reminded her, and his voice was gruff and raw enough that Krissy felt her heart pang again with all she had seen, in that night and before that. When the monsters had killed people in front of her, when Victor had killed himself on the floor of the home he'd taken the three of them into, when she'd come home to her father, throat ripped out, awaiting vengeance. Her mother, and though the memory was normally too hard to remembered, Krissy attacked it anyway.

Her beautiful mother torn to shreds by a monster. Her beautiful mother tucking her into bed and telling Krissy that, no matter what, beyond this earth and the next, she loved her more than anything.

"I know too," Krissy shrugged a little. "My Dad, remember? And my Mom, and Victor. I just..." Krissy let her gaze lose itself off in the distance. She snapped into awareness and looked at Dean. "This is why we do it, isn't it? This is why we hunt. To stop things like this from happening. To _save_ Aidan before he dies."

Dean looked at her softly and Krissy almost felt embarrassed, but she wasn't. Because a new day was coming, and Josephine and she would buy a nicer car, and the world awaited them. The world was theirs for the taking.

"Maybe one day I'll go to college," Krissy said idly, looking down at her finger as she tangled it in her bedclothes. "But I don't think so. Because this is more important." She looked up at Dean. "Saving people, right? The traditional old-fashioned good guys. That's who I want to be."

"Just..." Dean swallowed. "Make sure that you're not doing this for the wrong reasons."

"How do you mean?" Krissy frowned.

"Make sure, that when you save people, you're doing it _to_ save people, and not to avenge Aidan."

Krissy watched him for a moment, and like so many before her and so many after, she wondered _exactly_ what had happened to the Winchester brothers throughout their lives. She wondered what had come of John Winchester. She wondered if Dean often thought of him, if he often thought of his mother.

Krissy realised that she didn't want to be Dean Winchester. Because she felt _sorry_ for Dean Winchester.

"Ok," she said simply, and Dean stood as he said goodbye.

He shook her hand, and his was warm and calloused. Krissy watched him go from her seat on the bed and closed her eyes when the door _snicked_ shut behind him.


	16. You Remind Me of the Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brutal, shocking death at one of Charlie's conventions takes the boys to one of the places they'd rather not be.

"No, no, you've got it all wrong," the blue locks of Claudia's wig caught in her mouth as she shook her head. "See, Captain Kirk and Spock were _always_ mean to be together. They just weren't because the station didn't allow it. Star Trek was really forward thinking for its age."

Jonathon was unconvinced and flicked the hairs of his own wig out where it was tickling below his neck. Legolas the Elf hadn't had an attractive tick to the tips of his hair, but it was the best that John had been able to do on such a short notice. Claudia had said yes when he'd finally racked up the nerves to ask her, and because Claudia was really hot and into Star Trek, is wasn't like Jonathan was going to say _no_. "I just... where did you read that?"

"The internet," Claudia frowned, pushing at her blue wig again.

"Well, there you go," Jonathan shrugged.

Claudia scrunched up her face. "This just in, everything and I mean _everything_ on the internet is a lie. There is no United States and I have fooled you all."

"Alright, alright," Jonathan rolled his eyes. "I get it, but I just don't believe your initial point. I mean, I understand that Star Trek was progressive, but let's be realistic. People are terrified of having gay people as their main characters _now_."

"I guess that's true," Claudia agreed sullenly, wrapping her arms across her chest hiding the writing on her t-shirt that said 'Artist, pronounced Arteest'. "Whatever. We've still got that panel to get to."

"Right," Jonathan tugged on his own shirt, vaguely Asian that was supposed to reminisce the one that Legolas had worn in the Elf kingdom. He wasn't sure, but he was halfway certain that Claudia was dressed up as the main character from her favourite book series. The problem was that not many people had heard of Laini Taylor and her main character, Karou. But Claudia assured him that if they saw her hair, and then her hands, which had hamsas painted on; if they knew the book then they'd know her.

"God, this place is so huge," Claudia stated, it was a complaint, but had a touch of excitement to it as well. "I can't wait. Do you think it'll be good?"

"Of course it will," John assured her, privately thinking that if the cost of the tickets was any indication, it was going to be _amazing_. He grinned over at her, and it was real as he took in all her excitement. Most of the times he'd brought girls to cons, they'd been polite but slightly repulsed. Claudia, it seemed, was different. She wasn't only enjoying herself, she was _thriving_.

Her head snapped to attention as a scream sounded out from the middle of the hall.

Her breath caught. "What was that?"

Jonathan felt something dangerous and terrifying digging at the bottom of his stomach, so he tugged at her hand, desperate to lead her away. "Claudia, leave it. Come on, let's go—"

"No," Claudia disengaged her hand, and without looking back to see if he was following, moved through the crowd that was gathering around the scene, dodging through people to the epicentre. Jonathan swore and ran after her, apologising as he moved through after her.

Jonathan tugged through the people after Claudia quickly, and nearly ran into the back of her when they reached the centre.

"What—" Then his eyes widened and he took it in. There was a girl, on her knees crouched over a boy who might have been Jonathan's age, perhaps a few years older. But the boy wasn't moving, and the girl was sobbing, her breathing short and husky. "Holy _crap_."

"Oh my God," Claudia whispered, eyes wide as she took in the dead boy and the weeping girl. "Oh my _god_."

The girl, still shaking, pulled the boy over and the crowd leaned forward tentatively. Jonathan spared a moment to look around and saw that about half of the people had their phones out and were calling the police, ambulance, fire department. Anyone who they could get through to. Anyone who would listen.

Claudia hissed and drew back into Jonathan's chest when the boys face was revealed. It was black and charred, like someone had set the skin blistering and alight.

" _Shit_ ," Jonathan breathed, and he felt out for Claudia's shoulders.

There was a squeak of something, recognition, fear, dismay; and he turned to see a redhead wearing a grey pant suit that probably held some significance for her staring at the boy knowingly. He didn't have much of a chance to watch her for much longer, because she was one of those who stepped out and ordered everyone to move back, to give the girl some room.

And in the hustle and bustle of the moments that passed, the interviews and the police and the photos and the announcements, John only saw her once more. She led the girl, still shaking, off to the corner. From the distance he was at, he could see that she somehow convinced one of the officers that she could be trusted with the girl, and then they both walked off to a deserted area of the convention.

In the same way that something had ached deep in his chest when Claudia had turned to see what all the fuss was about, Jonathan knew that the girl was special, that something was happening.

But he would never find out what.

* * *

"I've said it once, I've said it a million times," Dean announced as he put the Impalas keys back on the kitchen bench, dusting his hands of the case and leaning against the bench. "Monsters, I get—"

"People are crazy," Sam finished for him, tired and sore, and irritated beyond belief. He was exhausted, the drive had taken 2 hours over time because the Impala had chosen that day to sport her usually nonexistent wear and tear, and more poignantly, throughout the whole thing Dean had been unusually chipper. Of course, _Dean_ hadn't been the one to fall from a second storey window onto the top of a carport, rolling until he hit the edge and fell the rest of the way.

It had been a suspected haunting that was _actually_ some crazy old neighbour with too much time on his hands and a spare surgeons degree he wasn't putting to good use.

Sam thought of the state of the bodies they'd found under his house and winced. Definitely not good use.

Dean looked at Sam pointedly as Dean's phone rang and he picked it up, sliding it along his ear. "Charlie!" He greeted, and that happiness proved itself again in his voice as he spoke to her. "How you been? Did you just get back from New Zealand or—" Dean frowned, and from the silence of the room, Sam could make out the high pitched, quick notes of Charlie's voice.

She was worried, and Dean's slowly darkening face only paid heed to that.

"Wait, hold up—no this is important— what do you mean handle it yourself? Where's Dorothy?"

Sam smirked a little as the sounds coming from Dean's phone grew agitated and sarcastic. Dean responded with an eye roll. "Fine, _ok_ ¸ Charlie. Jeez. Chill out."

Sam watched patiently as Dean finished up the call. His big brother heaved a sigh and snapped his phone shut with an exasperated vigour. "Charlie's found a case, and she's sort of freaking out."

"I heard," Sam said, carefully adjusting his arms so as to not disturb his recently dislocated shoulder. "When are we leaving?"

"Tomorrow," Dean gave him a look. "And you," he pointed at Sam who felt strangely spotlighted. "Are going to have an early night and a late start."

Sam resisted the urge to pout and decided to give into his brothers fussing. If they were going to be hitting up another case in such a short amount of time, and he was as injured as he was, then he was going to need all the help he could get.

"Fine," Sam said. "But tomorrow, I'm driving."

Dean's face didn't give. "Good one. No way in Hell. Would you like chicken soup or a burger?"

"Neither," Sam sniffed, adjusting his hands again, irritable. "I'm not hungry."

Dean rolled his eyes and turned to the bench, where Sam's laptop was waiting patiently. " _Fine_."

* * *

"While you were off with the fairies, I got Charlie to fill me in a bit more," Dean told his brother, who was still dressed in his pyjamas and paused to yawn as he reached for the cereal.

"Right," Sam nodded, voice still thick from sleep. "Recovering from a two storey fall. When'd she and Dorothy get back from New Zealand?"

"Dunno," Dean shrugged, clasping onto his coffee mug and leading against the bench. "But I _do_ know that the guy just dropped dead in the middle of a crowded hall, and had burns on his face when his body was turned around."

"What do you mean, busy hall?" Sam narrowed his eyes and paused his cereal pouring. "Where'd the guy die?"

"At a convention," Dean sighed, and when Sam's eyes widened with fear, he held his hands up to calm Sam down. "Don't worry, just a general convention. No Supernatural books, nothing like that."

Sam let out a breath of relieved air. "Oh, thank God. Because, if it was, we wouldn't be going."

"Oh, I know," Dean grimaced. He shuddered when he remembered the last time that they had come face to face with those books. It was so creepy, having everything, intimate or not, written out for the whole world to see. Granted, not much of the world _had_ seen it, and the lack of popularity of the books was one of the reasons that Dean was able to get himself to sleep at night.

"And so the guy," Sam moved over to the fridge to pick out the milk and then return back to his cereal. "Did he die because of the burns on his face, or for some other reason?"

"Charlie said that because he didn't scream, it was something else," Dean said. "But the Coroner's report should be due in a few days."

"So, it'll be the Feds, then?" Sam guessed, pushing his mused hair back from his face and holding his cereal ball in one hand. He let his hair stay as it was and reached out for a spoon, balancing the weight in his hand, pushing the cereal under the white of the milk and waited for it to become damp enough to eat.

Dean quickly shook his head. "Nope. Charlie said she overheard one of the police officers mention that the Bureau would _definitely_ send people down for something like this, especially in such a crowded area."

"Right?" Sam frowned, not getting it and preparing his first spoonful. "And? So they'll be expecting us."

"No, they won't be expecting _us_ ," Dean gave him a look, and Sam restrained himself from defending his position that _no_ he never really thought of them as _actual_ FBI agents. "They'll be expecting the two agents that the bureau sends."

"Oh," Sam said simply, blinking. "Oh."

"Yeah, _oh_." Dean drained the last of his coffee and set the mug down with a clatter. "I'm gonna go get changed. You good to pack and be ready in half an hour."

Sam nodded, chewing and making for the stools at the bench at the same time.

* * *

"Sam! Dean!" Charlie popped her head out first before the door to her apartment opened the full way. She smiled at them and hugged both in greeting. "Thank God you're here. I was freaking out, no idea what to do."

"Well, we're here now," Dean said, and Charlie gave him a look, mostly fond with a hint of irritation, at the bravado in his tone. "How's the Hunt for Oz comin' along?"

"Nicely," Charlie grinned, and both brothers knew what she was going to say before she said it. "We found it! _And_ closed it, and it was _totally_ badass and hot. So now the only way in is with the key."

"Good job, Charlie," Sam smiled, high fiving her. "We knew you'd be the best person for the job."

"Well, you weren't wrong," Charlie smiled, one hand on each hip, standing in her Wonder Woman pose.

"Charlie?" Dorothy walked out from the corridor off to the right and into the living area when she heard noises. Dorothy blinked in surprise as she saw Sam and Dean. "Oh, Hello Sam, Dean. I thought you weren't going to be here until this afternoon."

Dean frowned. "What?"

"Hi, Dorothy," Sam said, inwardly cringing over her brother and smiling at the woman across the room. "Here you've been having some un-conventional trouble."

Charlie blinked, and then she bent over, heaving with laughter. " _Un-conventional_ , oh my _God_!"

Dean looked at Sam, who, sheepish, had a stupid smile on his face, and Dorothy, who looked closer to groaning. "Whatever. I don't get it."

"We're at a convention," Sam supplied quickly, catching Dorothy's eye who gave him a direct look. If Charlie reacted like this every time someone told a pun, then Sam didn't blame her.

Charlie eased back and shot her gaze sharply over to Dean, irritated. "Dean, the joke isn't funny if someone has to explain it."

Dean, nonplussed, apologised. "Right, sorry."

"So," Sam said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Tell us about the case."

"Oh, yeah sure," Charlie nodded and pushed her hair delicately behind her ear. She nodded towards her couch. "Wanna, uh, sit down first?"

"Thanks," Dean flashed a smile and sat down, Sam moving after him, taking the seat beside him and running his hand through his hair.

"Ok," Charlie sat opposite them, with the look of someone determined, someone harried. "So, you know me, normally I would have taken this one on all by myself and embodied wonder woman and whatever—Dorothy's my side kick—"

"No I'm not."

"Then explain the well timed 40's comebacks!" Charlie called over her shoulder. Dorothy, who was leaning on the bench, darkened her gaze and exasperated, pulled an apple from the bowl and took a massive bite.

"Charlie," Sam said, reminding her of why they were there. "What else?"

"Oh right, sorry," Charlie pushed her hair back again. "None of that was important. Where was I?"

"The beginning," Dean said, irritated.

"Oh, yeah, of course," Charlie nodded quickly. "Ok, so we were at the Con and, well, I didn't see it happen, but I saw the body after but, this girl, Emma James, who he was with, she was screaming and you could just tell, as soon as I saw the body I knew, the dude, Mark Roberts, was a doornail."

"And you said he had burns on his face?" Sam pressed, trying not to smile at her enthusiasm. He didn't mock her for it, though. He was _inspired_ by it. Hunting, as anyone knows, is hardly an exercise of happiness and rainbows. Charlie's words and her actions contradicted that. She managed to find happiness in the darkest places, in the worst things. And Sam respected that. He _wanted_ that.

It was almost as if Charlie _knew_ the impact that she was having, that she _understood_ the way the world turned for her, and she didn't find anything sad in that. She didn't understand why there were reasons to be angry when all she was doing was helping people.

What was the point in being sad, when there was so much to be happy for?

"Yeah, the was the weird part," Charlie frowned and clasped her hands over her knees, elbows pressing into the top of her thighs. "Because the burns, like, I'm not exactly 100% familiar with the mysteries of the human body and all the crap, but I'm pretty sure that burns aren't meant to blacken. To char."

"Wait, so it wasn't like, just red?" Dean asked, easily more curious now. The case was unravelling itself quickly. "The burn was _black_?"

Dorothy's "Gross" floated down from the kitchen, but the three ignored it.

"Yeah," Charlie nodded and winced. "It _was_ gross."

"And the girl, Emma," Sam pressed on. "The one who you said was with Mark. Do you know where we can speak to her?"

"Already have," Charlie shrugged. "She doesn't know anything. Only met the boy that day in the queue for lunch and they'd hit it off. She said she only knew his first name, but that she was pretty sure he would have told her if he was suffering from any pertinent terminal illnesses." She tilted her head and smiled a little. "She said he was a little anal about stuff like that."

"So we're decently sure that the guy was murdered by the supernatural," Dean finished. "But we don't know how, or why, or who, and he was the first murder?"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, no one else has died yet." She frowned. "I'm pretty sure, anyway."

"So, I think we should investigate the scene of the crime," Sam finished, looking at Dean who nodded in agreement. "What do you think? Dean says Feds are out—"

"Good call," Charlie interrupted. "My sources tell me that they arrived late night yesterday."

"Sources?"

Charlie shifted a little. "Can't a girl have sources if she wants?"

"Charlie," Dean said warningly, and she sighed, exasperated.

" _Fine_. The internet. Happy?"

"Exceedingly."

"I don't trust the internet," Dorothy mentioned from behind them, halfway through her apple and wrinkling up her nose. "Seems a little demonic to me."

"You're being misinformed again," Charlie called out over her shoulder, and the Winchester brothers played witness to Dorothy pursing her lips, unconvinced, and taking another huge bite of her apple.

"Back to the thing that actually matters," Sam said, looking from Dean, quietly entertained, to Charlie, who looked very obviously entertained. "What are we? Journalists? Maybe CDC? Call it an epidemic?"

"If there are actual Feds on the case," Dean reminded him. "Then I don't know how high up we should be going."

"Well, none of that matters, because I have an idea," Charlie's eyes shone brightly. "And you ain't gonna like it."

Sam eyes widened with realisation. "No, _no_." He shook his head desperately. "I won't. You can't make me."

Dean looked at his brother, confused, and Sam watched as the cold, dead realisation hit. " _Absolutely_ not."

* * *

They entered into the hall with a stream of other people and Sam looked around nervously, adjusting his jacket self consciously. He was dressed in the clothes that he had come in, but that was the entire problem; he had come as himself.

"Ok guys," Charlie told them in a low voice as they walked with the crowd towards the centre of the hall. She seemed a little lost without her sidekick, but Dorothy had been adamant about staying home. She'd told Sam that the last time she'd been there, a grand total of five guys asked her if she'd been there before, and another six laughed when she told them that she was Dorothy. Sam hadn't really blamed them, they'd probably thought it was a joke, but the grim set of irritation of Dorothy's mouth and Sam's remembrance of the Supernatural convention led him to empathise with her over the strangers who'd unknowingly insulted her. "Who are you again?"

"Sam Winchester," Sam said through gritted teeth.

Dean didn't answer. He just crossed his arms over his chest.

Charlie nodded. "Nice. Now, just say that if someone asks, and then we'll be fine."

"You know, Dean and I grew up alone in Motel rooms," Sam told Charlie in a low voice, still frowning. "If you were worried people would think we weren't 'real fans', you don't have to worry. We've seen all the Back to the Future's at least 9 times."

"Probably more," Dean agreed. "I would have preferred to go as a young Marty McFly than myself."

"Well," Charlie was exasperated and threw her arms to her side. " _Sorry_ , ok? But I don't know where _you_ think you'd be able to get a mad scientist outfit at such short notice and at this time of year. And besides, isn't this just easier?" Charlie looked a little sheepish. "And cooler?"

"Neither," Dean answered, still miffed.

Sam glanced at Dean, and then to Charlie. "Well, not _neither_. I mean, it is a little less of a hassle—"

"Sam!"

"Right," Sam amended quickly. "Sorry."

"No one will even recognise us," Dean sighed, plucking at the end of his sleeve and pouting. "Chuck told us that the books weren't even that big."

Charlie made a scoffing noise. "Oh, people will _recognise_ you. Haven't you heard the—" She paled as she saw them snap to attention. "...news?"

"Charlie," Sam said in a low, warning voice. "Tell us what they've done."

Charlie looked quickly between them. People were making faces as they were forced to push passed, but they didn't seem to chase it up with any sort of confrontation when they saw Dean's angry, glaring face. "Ok, for the record, I was one of the _anti_ , so don't get—"

"Charlie," Dean said, reminding her, and she nodded apologetically, biting her lip.

"Ok, so don't get mad, but the Supernatural books got picked up for a TV show," Charlie finally said, and both Sam and Dean groaned in synch, Sam running his hand through his hair and Dean's already dark mood turning murderous. "They've got some info on it in a another room, if you wanna check it out...?"

"Is this actually going to happen?" Sam asked, his voice lightly strangled. "Please tell me this is just a bad dream. People are _actually_ going to _see_ us doing things? On TV? Acted out by actors?"

"Yeah," Charlie winced empathetically. "But the worst thing is, they're bringing Cas and the Angel storyline to season one."

"That is definitely not the worst part of this," Sam said in a small voice.

"Have we been cast?" Dean asked, almost bashful as he turned to Charlie.

"Uh, yeah," Charlie slipped her phone out of her pocket. "I could show you, if you like?"

"Let's move to the side," Sam suggested, and looked around at the people who were forcing to part for them as they stood, unmoved and desperate, within the frothing crowd.

Charlie led them to a darker corner and brought up the cast list. Sam felt his stomach tug when he saw 'Mary Winchester', 'John Winchester' and 'Jessica Moore' lined up as characters. He saw himself and frowned, tilting his head. Though the guy wasn't awful looking, and he was fully aware that he had a strong bias against already, he hated him.

"Wow," Sam muttered bitterly. "That's amazing."

"They're going back to 2005, the whole shebang," Charlie told them, as she scrolled through and showed Dean the description of the actor that was going to be playing him. "Which means 2005 hair _and_ fashion. Yay!"

"I thought that Carver Edlund," the faux name felt wrong to say, tasteless and odd on Sam's tongue. "Didn't tell the fans our last name?"

Charlie shrugged. "It came out in the last few books, I guess. And in the newer publications, it's been edited in. Popular fandom critique of the earlier books was mostly centred on the lack of complicated and permanent female characters and then, of course, the absence of a last name, which was actually really irritating to read—"

"Charlie," Sam cut her off.

"Right," she winced. "Sorry."

"Where are you?" Sam asked, looking up from the phone, away from Dean who was reading through it with a desperate concentration.

Charlie shifted. "Well, Edlund never introduced me to the story, so I guess I'll never be in it."

"Then who have you dressed up as?" Sam looked over her, frowning. "I thought you said we were keeping to the Supernatural theme."

"We are," Charlie said in a small voice.

Sam waited patiently.

"I'm Anna," Charlie said in an offhand way, and Sam raised his eyebrows. "Now, don't get mad, I was just..." Charlie seemed to regain a little confidence when she saw that Dean hadn't looked up from her phone and Sam didn't seem angry. "She was the only one with red hair, and she was my favourite character until she went all crazy and killed Sam—"

"She wasn't a character," Sam reminded her. "She was a real person."

Charlie faltered again. "I know, it's just..." She grimaced. "No one _else_ knows, and I guess I'm paying homage to her, right? Like, before Heaven turned her evil I guess..." She looked up at Sam and seemed to deflate with relief when she saw that he wasn't angry. "You ever figure out how that happened, by the way?"

"Um, yeah," Sam looked at Dean for confirmation, but he was still reading. "We think that Heaven's been able to control their forces to such an extent because they were wiping memories and then manipulating the minds of the angels."

"Huh," Charlie crossed her arms over her chest. "That would explain why Cas was such a dick after he got taken up to Heaven."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. Dean had been reading the thing for a while now, and though Sam had reached an uncomfortable peace with the whole idea, he knew that historically, Dean had always taken the extreme invasion of privacy a lot worse. "Hey, dude, you all good?"

Dean looked up, with murder in his eyes. "An _ex-model_? From _Texas_?"

"Yeah," Charlie nodded. "Apparently he's amazing."

"So what, he's just gonna pout his way through our lives?" Dean demanded, handing the phone back to Charlie with vehemence.

"Well, you do kind of make that face," Sam said hesitantly. "You know, the..." he trailed off when Dean turned his glare onto his little brother.

"Not helpful, Sam," Dean said through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, right, sorry."

Charlie suddenly started to hit Sam's arm repeatedly, looking off over his shoulder with wide eyes.

"What?" Sam immediately dropped to work mode. "Who is it?"

"It's the girl," Charlie said quickly, looking from brother to brother, waiting for that spark of recognition. She scowled when she saw them clueless. "Emma James, The one who was with the boy when he died. I thought she was going to hospital to treat the shock!"

"Must have let herself out," Dean said grimly, the TV show forgotten, for now. "Why would she come back?"

"She must have bought the tickets for today as well," Charlie shrugged, gaze fixed firmly on the girl, who, though smiling only hesitantly and averting her eyes from most of the people, was righted when she should have been at home, or at the hospital.

"Are the tickets expensive enough that she would have felt like she had to come both days?" Sam asked carefully, watching her as Charlie did. He had spotted her right away, and with the description Charlie had given, he wasn't surprised. Tall, white pale, with dyed fire hydrant red hair and a trail of stars tattooed onto her neck; she was hard to miss.

"Well, they cost a crap load, but," Charlie pursed her lips and shook her head. "No. Not even close."

Charlie turned quickly so that only her back faced the girl when her sight swept along the crowd. Sam watched her and nodded as her eyes moved on. "I can't talk to her, she'll recognise me. She'll know what I'm up to. One of you need to go."

"Wait, what?" Dean demanded, and then gave Sam a look as if to say 'This ones on you, buddy'.

"Go, relate to her," Charlie shoved Sam a little, in the direction of where the girl was sitting. "Ask her if she's read the Supernatural books."

"I thought flirting was Dean's forte," Sam refused, looking for his brother for backup, but Dean only shrugged.

"And geeky, nerdy crap is yours. Come on, dude. Go talk to the girl. You're letting down the team."

"Nice," Charlie murmured, and Sam could imagine the high five that Dean'd be getting once Sam had turned around and given in.

Sam sighed, loudly, glared at his brother and at Charlie, and then made his way through the crowd towards Emma. he edged around the people and tried to guess what everyone was dressed up as, but failed heavily. Pop culture had changed as he and Dean had been busy trying to save the world. He consoled himself with finding a Dany from Game of Thrones and even Ichabod Crane from Sleepy Hollow, but other than that it was just a swarm of activity and colour.

Sam carefully walked to where Emma was sitting and bumped into her, as if on accident.

She turned and blinked, looking at him with wide eyes. "Oh, sorry."

"Oh, God, no, that ones on me," Sam smiled at her, and she half-heartedly smiled back.

It was an old trick, one that Dean had taught him when he was 12 and he'd had a crush on Amanda Spencer, and it was so lame that Amanda had nearly fallen over in laughter, but it worked now. Sam could imagine Dean's grin and Charlie's wide smile as they recognised it. Dean would have probably told the story.

Whether or not he omitted the part where Amanda agreed to go out with him, and he took her to the dance (it was really more of a super lame 70's themed disco) before they had to leave town, chasing after a pack of werewolves, was up to his brother.

"So, who are you dressed up as?" Sam asked her, looking down at her clothes. Other than her hair and tattoo, she was dressed normally. There was a plaid shirt and a leather jacket, with a pair of black pants and rusted, dusty boots.

"You probably haven't heard of it," Emma said, pulling at her sleeve self consciously.

"Try me," Sam smiled, privately agreeing with her.

"The Supernatural books, by Carver Edlund?" Emma tried, and Sam fought to keep a smile on his face as his insides sank with relief and bubbled with shame at the same time. "I know they've been gathering a bit of attention lately, with all the hype about the new show..."

"Oh no, I know it," Sam said, hoping he sounded more enthusiastic than he felt. To him, his words sounded dry and sarcastic, but Emma brightened with interest. "As a matter of fact, I'm dressed up as Sam."

"Oh, wow, nice one," Emma smiled, looking him up and down critically. "Well, you're certainly tall enough."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. He sighed inwardly and wished that he could melt in the floor, or at least switch places with Dean without arousing any suspicion. "You never said, who are you dressed up as again?"

"Oh, Jo, the hunter?" Emma smoothed down her front and Sam found himself nodding. "I mean, obviously she has blonde hair, but, I dunno, last few days have been a bit..." Emma trailed off and caught herself. She brightened and nodded at Sam. "So, you get the tattoo?"

"The what, sorry?" Sam asked, stomach sinking as he realised what she meant. "Oh, uh," He adjusted his top so that she could see the anti-possession symbol emblazoned onto his chest. "Yeah. Make up these days, right?"

Sam's attempt to be relatable fell flat as Emma tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. She was smiling though, like she thought he was cute. "Right."

"Hey, did you go to the Con yesterday?" Sam asked, sliding into a more comfortable standing posture and looked quickly to where Charlie and Dean were standing. They were both watching him and from where he was standing, Sam could only see their mouths moving as they made conversation. "Heard that something messed up happened."

Emma bristled, and this time when she lost her smile, it stayed lost. "Yeah. I don't..." She bit her lip. "I was the girl. With the boy that died."

Sam pretended to be shocked, raising his eyebrows, widening his eyes. "Wait, someone _died_?"

Emma swallowed and nodded. "I'd only met him that day... but he was really nice and all that. I was worried that he was going to have to go back to Australia and we'd never see each other again, but..." Emma tightened her jaw and shrugged. "I dunno. Guess Fate has funny ways of playing with us."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," Sam said sincerely. He hesitated for a moment and stuck out his hand. "I'm Sam, by the way."

"Wait, really?" Emma's lips quirked as she nearly smiled, and Sam hastily mirrored her expression to brush it off as a joke.

"No, course not," Sam laughed. "I'm J...John."

"As in John Winchester?" Emma was really smiling now, and Sam decided to stick with this name.

"Yep, crazy world, isn't it?" He flashed a smile again and she returned it.

"I'm Emma," she said, finally accepting his waiting hand and shook it warmly. "The craziest." Sam watched as her face collapsed and darkened.

He looked over his shoulder as she hugged her arms to herself. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, it's my..." She laughed bitterly. "It's my freakin' ex boyfriend. I didn't think he'd be here, but..." She chewed on the inside of her lips and clutched her hands at her sides like fists. "God, I hate him so much."

"Do you want me to talk to him, or..." Sam looked for the guy, but all the different people overlapped and he couldn't make out who it was.

"No, no, it's fine Sam," Emma assured him.

"Ok," Sam said, looking down at her with a smile. "See you round, then, Emma."

"See you round, John."

* * *

"Her story checks out," Sam told Charlie and Dean when he made his way back to their corner. They looked annoyed but not mad, so Sam took that as a good sign. "She told me the exact same thing she told Charlie. She just met the guy yesterday, but felt like she might have been able to start something, etcetera."

"And that's why they pay you the big bucks," Dean smiled, clasping Sam's arm and grinning up at his brother, while Sam grimaced. "Those sensitive eyes, it's a wonder we ever need the holy water when we're chattin' to the more demonic sons of bitches in the field."

Sam ignored his brother and let his eyes cast backward and saw Emma chatting to another stranger, this time the boy she was with was a lot more friendly than Sam had been. He put his hand on her arm and leaned in as he laughed. She was acting the same way, waist back and chest forward, playing with the tips of one of her hair.

"Hey, earth to Sammy," Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam's eyes and his flew to consciousness. Charlie and Dean were both giving him pointed looks, and he blushed when he realised what they were referring to.

"Come on, _no_ ," Sam rolled his eyes. He looked back, and the two looked with him. "That guy, though, have you ever seen him before?"

"She seems to be moving through boyfriends pretty quickly," Dean commented, and Charlie rolled her eyes and groaned loudly.

"Says the guy who sleeps with more than one woman in a night," Charlie looked at him pointedly, and when Dean looked at Sam for backup, he was just met with an expression that mirrored Charlie's.

"Oh, come on, you know what I mean," Dean said, looking at Emma and the new boy again. "I just feel like it's a little odd that someone dies, and then the next day she's on the prowl again."

" _On the prowl_ ," Charlie mimicked. "Honestly, do you hear yourself sometimes?"

Sam did understand what Dean meant, however badly his brother phrased things. Emma was comfortable for the most part, and other than when Sam brought it up, was only minutely distracted by the death of Mark the day before. There was something slightly off about that. Perhaps Emma was just trying to distract herself, perhaps she just wanted to not be alone for the day.

In any sense, the three decided it would be best to keep a look out for her.

Charlie claimed a bit of floor for them to crouch down onto, and there they mused over their findings.

"Ok," Dean mused smartly. "So we know that Emma was here yesterday and that she's here today. What about Mark Roberts? What do we know about him?"

"While you were coming, I spoke with my Source—"

"You googled him," Sam corrected. "But go on."

"Well, I actually did a hyper-fast internet keyword search within all police and intelligence agency websites and databases," Charlie corrected, looking a little miffed. "But yeah, I 'googled'."

"What did you find, Charlie?" Dean asked, his voice a little slow with boredom.

"Loads of stuff," Charlie said excitedly. Then she backtracked. "Well, the usual amount of stuff. And none of it was interesting."

"That was incredibly misleading," Dean told her.

"No one's perfect," Charlie said defensively. "But from what I could find, Mark was just your usual nerdy kid. He had a blog and a twitter, and he live-blogged every episode of House of Cards, but internet wise, I didn't find any proof that he was caught up in some sketchy circles."

"Did you talk to his parents?" Sam asked.

Charlie nodded. "Me and Dorothy split up, I took friends and she took family."

"Smart move," Dean nodded, and Sam agreed full heartedly. He tried to imagine Dorothy and all her frustration with modern life trying to tackle today's teenagers.

"She's been a little blue since we solved the Oz puzzle, but I dunno if it helped much," Charlie told them. "There wasn't really anything to find. The parents were upset, distracted, and Dorothy isn't a peoples person. She's good in the field, of course, every aspect of Hunting comes so _naturally_ to her..." Charlie trailed off and then righted herself, returning to the real thing that she'd been talking about. "Anyway, there was nothing to be found. He was just normal. Nice and normal."

"If someone was hunting out nerds," Dean commented, looking around. "This'd be a good place to start."

"Why, because _you're_ here, Dean?" Sam said, and Dean, glaring, reached across and lightly punched into Sam's shoulder.

Charlie smiled at Sam. "Nice one."

* * *

They tailed Emma from a distance for the rest of the day. Sam and Dean were congratulated on three separate times on their Sam and Dean Winchester costumes, and every one of those times made Dean wish a little more that Charlie had never called them to this stupid case.

They passed the information panel about the Supernatural TV show a grand total of five times, and each of those times was more painful than the last. Charlie it seemed, finally took pity on them, and in their turning about of the rooms, she made sure that they would avoid that section, even though the TV show was probably something Emma would have been interested in.

Dean amused himself by trying to figure out who each of the characters were, and by midday, he'd gotten Charlie and Sam onto it as well. They made out three Castiel's, easily spied with his telltale trench coat and dark, oversized suit, and a few other people who, if Dean tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, could have passed as hunters in the real world.

Beyond that, Charlie was better than all of them. Sam managed to nab a John McClane before Dean, and grinned about it for the rest of the day, and Dean counted another three of himself. Every time he saw replicas of the amulet that Sam had given him, he felt a turning, a hollow thud, deep inside his chest.

They followed Emma off until, giggling, she pulled her new boy off into some storage room, totally unused, completely alone.

They all hesitated outside the front, and Charlie and Dean's eyes met for the breadth of a second.

"We could just... wait out the front?" Sam finally suggested awkwardly, clearing his throat and watching to see how Charlie and Dean would react.

"Fine by me," Charlie moved and pressed herself against the wall, sighing away the length and intensity of the day. Dean walked over to meet her, and Sam, with a dry throat and itchy eyes, stayed back.

"I think I'm gonna go get some water," Sam told them, and uninterested, they nodded, returning to whatever conversation they'd sparked up. Sam walked off, still achingly self conscious in this new environment.

He found the place to buy water, and as he forked over the ridiculous number for the drink, the cashier gave him a once over, and then grinned. "Sam, Winchester, right?"

Sam forced himself to smile. Being recognised by angels and demons had nothing on being spotted out by random human strangers who didn't even know that the books they read were the real thing. "Yeah, how'd you guess?"

"I'm a fan," he shrugged and gave Sam back his money. "You excited for the new TV show?"

Sam's lips puckered, and his disapproval must have shown, because the cashier nodded knowingly.

"Don't worry, I know. Bringing the angel storyline to season 1? What are they, sadists?"

Sam was pretty sure you had to be a bit more into mutilation to be considered a sadist, but he got were the guy was coming from, and, not trusting himself to speak, just nodded.

"Sam's my favourite, by the way," the cashier said, as a way of farewell.

But Sam hesitated, and turned back, curious. "What do you mean?"

He blinked, surprised, looking up from the till, where he was still sorting Sam's money. "Oh, I mean, I guess I just respect him the most. He went through the most, right?" He smiled to himself, and Sam's heart picked up when the guy cleared his throat, a little uncomfortable. "And he was always the good guy. I mean, Dean was cool and all, but it was _Sam_ who made that final sacrifice. I don't know if Dean could have done that."

Sam was caught in the odd predicament of wanting to thank, argue or hug the guy. So he opted out of all three and just nodded, walking away. When Sam peered back, he saw that the cashier was unperturbed.

He hadn't just said it to be kind, because he thought that it was the actual Sam Winchester he was talking to, but because he truly believed it. He truly respected Sam. Sam wasn't sure why, but from the start, hearing that the fans of the books were split in Sam Girls and Dean Girls, he'd always assumed that the vast majority had been for his brother. Dean just had that appeal about him, that rugged, superior, unattainable quality. Sam didn't begrudge him for it, but he didn't celebrate it either. It seemed that people were drawn to Dean more than they were to Sam. Krissy, Charlie, Jo, Ash, Bobby—nearly all their friends had preferred Dean to Sam. And Sam was ok with that, for the most part.

But there _were_ people who thought that he was more important than Dean, thought he was special, and though it was shallow, and vain and unfair on his brother; he walked back to Charlie and Dean with a spring in his step.

"You get the water?" Dean asked, and Sam nodded. His brother narrowed his eyes and gave Sam a once over. "What happened? Someone tell you that you looked like Harrison Ford again?"

"Someone said that?" Charlie asked, then she gave Sam a look over and nodded. "Oh yeah, I sort of see it."

"Dean was told he looked like Nicolas Cage once," Sam grinned, and Dean glared.

"No, they didn't."

"Yeah, they did."

Charlie cackled with laughter. "Oh my God, Dean, that's—" She started to laugh again, and though annoyed, Sam could see a sheepish grin tug at his brothers lips.

All three's heads snapped into attention as the scream pierced the air.

And it was coming from Emma.

They all ran to the room and Charlie flung the door open, reaching it first and darting into the room. It was dusty, and between the chairs and stacked tables, squished and uncomfortable. Emma sat next to the boy she had met earlier that morning, and though her hair was mused, it was her tears that caught Sam's attention. Her makeup was messed and not immediately recently. She'd been crying, for Mark, perhaps. To the boy who was lying, cool and unmoving on the ground.

"I don't, I _didn't_ —" Emma took ragged breaths as she bent over the body of the boy she'd been with. He had burns on his face, black like the ones Charlie had described, and he was very, _very_ still.

She looked up, and in her shock, still managed to recognise him. "John?"

"Hi, Emma," Sam said grimly, kneeling beside her and slowly tugging her away as she stared at him, and then from him to Dean and to Charlie. "Tell us what happened. Can you do that? Can you tell us what happened?"

"I was just—" She swallowed and closed her eyes, the pulse in her neck beating erratically, her fingernails digging into her skin. Sam looked up and saw Dean watching them. "He was _alive_ and now he's _dead_ and I—"

"We have to go," Sam told her quickly. "Can we go? We need to go now, or they'll find you with the body, and they'll suspect you of killing him. Do you understand?"

"I—" Emma swallowed desperately, eyes flying open in a panic. "What— _why does this keep happening to me_?"

"Emma, Emma," Charlie sat down beside the girl, and although her body still faced Sam's, she turned and stared at Charlie.

" _Charlie_?" Emma asked faintly. "I... he's _dead_ , Josh is _dead­_ —"

"Emma, we need you to calm down," Sam told her quickly, cutting her off before she could work herself into a state. If she hyperventilated and knocked herself out, it'd be a lot harder for them to get out of the building without raising any alarm. "We will explain _everything_ , but right now, we need to get you out of here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I—" Emma stared at Sam, and then, folding in on herself and steeling herself with one, single, quivering sob, she took a deep breath and, shaking, stood, averting her eyes from Josh's corpse.

"Charlie, could you—?" Sam looked to his right, meeting her eyes, and she nodded immediately.

"Of course," she stepped forward and grasped Emma's forearm, letting the dazed girl lean on her shoulder as she carted her from the room.

Sam and Dean took a moment to breathe, to look at each other and then back to the corpse. Sam didn't need it to be spelt out, he knew that Emma was the common denominator, the trigger, perhaps even the cause. But he didn't know why.

"Awesome," Dean heaved, looking at his brother, bone tired. "Freakin' _great_."

Sam nodded. Just nodded, looking down at the corpse with a practised worry, with a familiar slither of panic that stole down his spine. Because who was next? What was happening?

How many more people were going to die, before he could save them?

* * *

Emma had climbed into the Impala with a look on her face that gave away how surreal she was finding her life. Sure, there were guys in there tag teaming as Dean and Sam, but of those, not many had an impala. And of those that _did_ have an impala, it was unlikely that the Dean of the pair would drive, and even more unlikely that they'd go to the trouble of etching D.W. and S.W. into the expensive wood panelling.

She was a smart girl, and she was starting to freak out.

Charlie, the familiar, trusted face sat in the back with her, holding her hand, and murmuring answers to her questions, although most of them were just 'You'll see soon."

Now Emma just sat, with a look of pure disbelief on her face, on the floor of Charlie's home. Dorothy was watching from afar, hands on her hips and the unpacked groceries that she'd just bought sitting sadly on the bench awaiting her full attention.

"I'm sorry," Emma's shock had mostly worn off, and now as she looked at the brothers, who were standing across from her, with disbelief. "You want me to believe that not only were the books Carver Edlund written real, but that _you_ two are the Winchesters?"

Dean wasn't sure whether it was a compliment or not, but he decided to throw her a bone anyway. She was tired, stressed, and had just seen a guy die right in front of her. "It's true. I'm Dean, he's Sam, our lives suck and everyone we love is dead."

"Summon Cas, then," Emma crossed her arms over her chest.

Sam looked at Dean, and he shrugged. Dean screamed in frustration inwardly and shook his head. "No can do. Some douche canoe cut all the wings off the angels, so now the only way we can get in contact is cell phone."

"Call him," she shrugged, more and more unconvinced in every passing moment.

"We can't, he's in Heaven," Dean said, and was astoundingly aware at how insane he sounded. Like a super fan gone bad.

"Can I go, now?" Emma asked, after a moment of silence, where she looked away and chewed on the inside of her cheek, tears welling up in her eyes. "My friend just died, and—"

"No, Emma, because someone's targeting you," Sam interrupted her. They needed to get her proof, but nothing realistic was coming to mind. Sam had advised against popping the trunk of the Impala and letting her see their artillery. That was just more likely to send her running off in the other direction than convince her that they were as they said they were.

Sam knelt down next to her, and she watched him carefully. "My name, is Sam Winchester." He pulled back the collar of his shirt, and when he brought up his tattoo, he ran his hand over it, hard enough to leave a red mark. "My tattoo is real." He slowly pulled out the demon knife and handed it to Emma, who grasped the handle reverently. "This is the demon killing knife that Ruby gave us when we went to track down Lilith." He reached into his pocket and handed her his fake FBI badge, and then another one, and then another. "These are my fake FBI badges." He tucked his hand into his back pocket and leafed through the credit cards, showing them all to the girl, who sat, still and quiet in front of him. "And these are the fraudulent credit cards that our Dad taught us to get."

"Your Dad—"

"John Winchester," Sam finished for her.

She looked at him, and then Dean, who'd stepped back and watched the whole conversation with a sense of wonder. "You're _real_?" Then fear gripped her, and her skin turned white. "Wendigos, werewolves, vampires, witches, spirits, _demons_ —they're all real?"

"Unfortunately," Dean sighed. "On both counts."

"Great," Emma whispered to herself, eyes wide. Then, as though it had just dawned on her, she looked at the Winchester brothers as though they had stepped out of another world, which, in a way, they had. "You... Oh my _God_. Sam, you get out of Hell. You get _out_."

Sam swallowed, but it was so minute that not even Dean, standing beside him, saw it. "Yep."

"And Dean," she stared at him, and Dean watched her defensively. "You died, for Sam. You went to Hell as well."

"Apparently," Dean said, nonplussed.

Emma wasn't insulted by it though, just caught up in wonder. She turned to Charlie, curious. "Where do you come in?"

"Me?" Charlie asked, and cough a little, self conscious. "I... Edlund never wrote me in, I mean... I come in later. After the books finish. I'm Charlie. Charlie Bradbury. I once sorta worked for a monster and then saved the Winchester's hides."

"Well, that's pushing it a little," Dean said.

"Not really," Charlie countered. She looked back to Emma, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes. "It's... I'm pleased to meet you."

"Same here," Emma said lightly, staring at Sam, and then at Dean. She looked passed them all to Dorothy, who, bored off the hubbub, had returned to stacking the food stuff in their rightful places. "And who's...who're you?"

"Me?" Dorothy asked, looking at the girl with surprise. "Dorothy."

Emma nodded seriously. "And..." She frowned, looking up at the Winchesters, and more particularly Sam, who was staring at her apologetically. Then she snapped back to attention. "Wait, as in _Dorothy,_ Dorothy? Toto, Evil Witch, Good Witch, the whole nine yards?"

"Uh, yeah."

Emma crossed her arms. "Ok, I swear to God, if you're all messing with me..." She stared, helpless, at Charlie, who was watching her like an exhibit at the zoo, to Dean and then finally Sam. "It's just... _Dorothy_ Dorothy?"

"Yeah," Sam told her. "Don't worry, we get it."

* * *

Emma went into further depth about the trials and tribulations of her boyfriend later that night, and to Dean, it was obvious. The guy was jealous out of his brain, he wanted her back, was a massive psychopath and had discovered witchcraft as a way to get back at all the guys that Emma dated, and Emma herself.

Everyone else, it seemed, needed a bit more convincing.

"He's not a _murderer_ ," Emma implored over a glass of red wine. "Possessive, sure, freaky as hell and I never want to see his ugly mug again..." Emma grimaced and took another drink of the wine. Charlie said that she'd been saving it for a special occasion, but because she and Dorothy never have special occasions, there was no reason not to drink it tonight. Dean wasn't a fan of red wine, but he took some anyway. He and Sam had mutually agreed that it reminded them too much of church to fully enjoy.

"Right," Dorothy said, in her no nonsense way that led the listener to believe she meant the exact opposite. "And so, who _else_ was it who wanted to target you and anybody you looked like you might be dating?"

Emma glared and opened her mouth to retort, but then closed it again when she had nothing to say. She pursed her lips and raised her glass to her mouth again. "Whatever."

"So, tomorrow, we want you to take us to your boyfriend, so that we can interrogate him and check out how he's killing these people," Dean finished, the most sober in the room, and thankful that Dorothy had his back. "Emma, are you ok with staying here tonight?"

"Sure," she murmured, swaying a little. Charlie darted forward and caught her, placing a steadying hand onto her arm.

"Bed time?" Sam suggested.

Charlie nodded, a yawn thickening her words. "Sounds like a half-way decent plan you got there, private."

* * *

"Do you see him anywhere?" Sam asked as they first entered into the room. It was the last day, and more than ever, packed to breaking point. The makeup was darker, stronger, more impassioned and the people were louder, excited.

Sam wondered if they were bouncing off the strange electricity in the air, the one that they confused for anticipation. Because there was murder and fire on the scent of the wind, and there was insanity pouring out of the walls and seeping through the carpet. Someone was watching Emma, another body had been found, the con wasn't being cancelled.

"Tragic, just tragic," someone nearby said, and Sam quickly checked Emma to make sure that she was ok. She didn't seem affected at all, just walking through, a faint smile on her face and her bag clutched tightly to her side.

"Found in a storage room apparently—" constant background noise, and Sam wished he could turn it off.

"We all good?" Dean asked, and Emma and Sam nodded at the same time. Dorothy had finally deigned to come, but she wasn't happy about it. Her hair was in its usual curls, and she hadn't made any effort with a costume. Charlie suggest she actually dress up as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, adopt a high pitched, southern accent and a blue checked dress, but the look Dorothy gave her after that could have killed.

So the conversation was dropped, and if anyone asked, Dorothy had opted to _not_ dress up this year.

Dorothy nudged Charlie to look at a girl dressed up as a giant flower. "Floral's? For spring? Groundbreaking."

Charlie's face split into a grin and, giving a huff of a laugh, she high fived Dorothy. "Nice one."

"I've been catching up on pop culture," Dorothy explained, to Sam's quizzical glance. She looked at him conspiringly. "Did you know that people went to the _moon_?"

"What? Really?"

"Yeah," Dorothy nodded, eyes still wide. Charlie, from behind her friends head, flashed Sam a smile.

The five of them spilled into the entrance hall much like they had before. But now the crowd jostled in a way it hadn't for the previous two days; and Charlie knew that if they stopped here now, like they had yesterday, they'd have to deal with more than a few awry glares.

"Ok," Charlie clapped her hands together. "Where to first?"

"David said he had to work every day of the convention," Emma explained, and when everyone looked at her, realising the enormity of the task, she reddened a little and ducked her head. "I didn't want to text him, ok? I deleted his number weeks ago. And anyway, it's creepy enough that he might be offing my potential boyfriends."

"There might be a roster somewhere?" Sam suggested, and Emma smiled up at him, relieved.

The rest of the group conceded, and together they made their way through the crowd, Dean pushing through with none of the false decorum he'd presented yesterday. They searched through all the important looking stations, and then snuck through the off limit areas to read through the papers pinned up on the wall, but they couldn't find him anywhere.

They took a break in the same corner that they'd claimed the day before, but this time they spoke in hushed tones, the people around them grouped a lot closer than they had been before.

"We'll have to split up," Dean said lowly. He looked over to Sam, who gave a decisive nod. "Me, then Charlie and Dorothy, and Sam and Emma."

"Ok, we're looking for David Jones," Emma told them, his name falling familiar from her mouth. "He's approximately 5 foot 9, blonde hair and blue eyes. Got it?"

"And he'll be working?" Charlie asked.

"Yes," Emma was convinced. "He took the job because he knew I was going to be here. I told him to leave on the first day, when I met Mark, but he refused." Her mouth tightened. "Said that the pay was good, and he was going to try to win me back."

"Sounds like a party," Dean said dryly.

"Ready to go?" Charlie asked Dorothy, her voice only just about a whisper.

Dorothy nodded, and Charlie led her off through the crowd.

"Looks like I'm going this way," Dean nodded his head in the opposite direction that the girls had gone.

"Looks like," Sam farewelled, and then Dean too, melted into the crowd.

"We ready?" Emma asked, looking up at Sam with half hopeful, half apologetic eyes.

"As we'll ever be," Sam said, and he was glad he did, because it made Emma smile.

* * *

A half hour later, and Dean sent through a text of no luck at nearly the same time as Charlie and Dorothy. Sam asked Emma to wait as he told them that they hadn't found anything either. His feet hurt and his head was beginning to ache from the constant concentration and the rich alcohol they'd drunk last night.

"This is getting ridiculous," Emma scowled and shoved the toes of her shoe into the carpet. "Where is he? Where could he have gone?"

"I don't know," Sam sighed. He looked up at one of the passing staff. "Do you know any of them through him? Could you ask them?"

"Half a freakin' hour, and _now_ we finally decide to ask for directions," Lucy laughed, a little bitterly, but threaded through the crowd to where one of the blue shirted staff were standing at a corner. They didn't seem busy, but Sam had no idea how conventions worked, so they could have been furiously at work for all he knew.

"Monica?" Lucy called out, and the girl, with a black pixie cut, looked up and then waved half-heartedly as she saw the red head call out to her. "Just a warning, she sort of hates me."

"Why?" Sam asked, amused.

"It's a buffy thing, you wouldn't understand."

Sam grinned slyly. "Speaking of Buffy..."

Emma snapped around, stopping and staring at him with wide, bright eyes. "Wait, is she real as well?"

Sam just let his grin grow, and the realisation hit, and Emma's eyes darkened, and she playfully shoved Sam in the chest.

"Do _not_ play with a woman's affections like that," Emma chastised, and they began to walk again over to a very confused Monica.

"Noted," Sam said, still smiling.

"Hello," Monica said, and Sam could sense the dislike, almost tangible in the air. "What can I do for you?"

"Hey, Mon," Emma smiled. "You happen to know if David's around? I really need to talk to him."

"Don't you have his number?" Monica asked, unmoved, and Emma shook her head.

"No, lost it. You know how it is," Emma shrugged happily. "Messy breakups."

"Uh, yeah, I think I saw him this morning," Monica finally said. Emma looked relieved that she'd been right. "But I haven't seen him in a while."

"That's ok," Emma thanked, and her gratitude seemed like a bit of overkill, but Monica seemed, despite herself, a little charmed. "Well, see you round."

"Yeah," Monica said, only now noticing Sam, looking up at him in blinks.

They pulled away and Emma's face edged into determination. "So we know he's here, we just don't know where."

"Right," Sam agreed.

Back from the crowd and into the dashing, heaving mess of the main crowd, a man stood, in a blue shirt, watching the love of his life walk around, chatting, _again_ , with another guy. He thought that he had made her see, he thought that he had _forced_ her to see what he really was, how she needed him, how he was the only one who could keep her safe.

His nails dug into his hands as he thought about what he needed to do.

* * *

Dean saw the man in blue, with blonde hair and blue eyes, marching across the ground with an oddly driven purpose, _finally_ after hours of searching. Dean almost forgot to follow after him at a distance, and sent a quick message to Charlie and Sam that he had found the guy. That Emma had been right.

He didn't wait for a reply as he tailed David to the Staff only area, and, waiting a few minutes for David to have gotten a reasonable head start, Dean headed off after him. He used his old tactic of just pretending that he was supposed to be there when he pushed through. A few people gave him odd looks, but no one stopped him. Every time someone approached close enough, he'd just side eye them until they walked away.

David's retreating figure made for a perfect aim on the horizon. His blonde hair was an easy target, and his shoulders were weighted, as if he was hiding, or guilty. Or both.

David led Dean through to the very end, where the people who had been so crowding outside and along the more traversed areas of the staff only area were a dream away. In this awful stillness, Dean could feel everything, hear everything. David was close, because Dean could hear his breathing, and somewhere a door was slamming, and somewhere else something hard and brittle had just snapped in two.

Dean reached back and pulled out his gun. He was lucky that there hadn't been any metal detectors. Now, though, he held it tightly in his hand, and moved to the tightly closed door where David had just disappeared to.

He felt his phone buzz against his pocket and hastily moved to quiet it. There was no ringtone, but surely, if Dean could hear David's breaths and the far away distant sound of someone yelling out in delight, then the grinding noise of a vibrating phone should have been easy.

His panic only heightened when he saw the caller ID.

David had broken something, David was _doing_ something.

* * *

Emma reached out and Sam swallowed as he felt his body heat up. He sat himself down carefully on the floor, and next to him, desperate, Emma used his phone to call dean. He felt his hands begin to shake, and he looked up at the ceiling, wondering if the other two had felt like this.

Wondering if he was going to end up like them.

Wondering if he was going to die. Die without saying goodbye to Dean.

Death had told Dean that Sam was to die first, and Sam was at peace with that decision. But why now? Why here? What more tragedy could there be than for Sam Winchester, the boy who had been through so much, to die just as he was starting to rediscover hope?

"Please pick up, please pick up," Emma chanted as she placed a small, comforting hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam felt himself leaning into it, felt his strength draining. The others had died instantly, and Sam wondered what was taking so damn long.

And praying that it would be long enough.

* * *

Dean ignored Emma, for surely it was Emma, who had picked up Sam's phone to tell Dean the worst news imaginable, that they'd been too late. That there was no coming back, that David had taken his third and final victim.

Dean's gaze was solid and perfect when he kicked the door down. He heard pause and almost felt the panic within the room. He didn't care. He kicked again.

If Sam had died—

If Sam was _dead_ —

So help me God, Dean would burn it down. He'd burn it all down. He'd kill David and then he'd... he didn't know _what_ he'd do. He didn't know...

The door didn't give and Dean tried again, kicking out, his foot sliding off the metal of the handle but making impact. One more and it'd be broken. One more and he would smash through.

 _Sam's dead, you asshole_.

And so Dean kicked again, and the dor flew off its hinges, slamming into the wall that it was attached to. Dean didn't take any time to look at the Witches utensils, at the voodoo like doll that David was holding, or the burning blue fire that the doll was suspended over. No, Dean just levelled his gun, saw the first dregs of panic filter into David's system, and without giving him a chance to respond, or speak, or _feel_ —

Dean shot him, and the sound of the bullet ricocheted around the room. David was staring at him when blood started to pool out of his chest, and then David fell over, dead. Dean watched him, unmoved from the position he'd arrived in. Then, slowly, without saying a word, Dean turned the fire off, cutting off the gas at the source.

He stared down at the wide-eyed corpse of the Witch, and wished that there'd been time enough to drag out his death.

 _All the deaths were instant_.

Dean bent over and picked up the doll. It was made of twine and other things that he didn't care about. And one thing he did. Tied around the neck was a single strand of brown hair.

Frowning, Dean pulled at it and it gave away. It was long enough to be counted as Sam's, and his heart started to beat painfully in his chest as his phone rang again.

This time, when he checked the caller ID and saw that it was Sam, he picked up.

" _Dean_? _Did you get him_?" Sam's voice was hoarse, and even over the phone Dean could imagine him slumped against a wall.

Dean swallowed a huffed sob of relief and ran a hand over his face. "Yeah, yeah Bud. I got him." He took a breath, light enough to make sure that Sam couldn't hear. "You ok? I thought that I'd..." _lost you_.

Sam didn't need him to fill in the blanks. " _I'm ok,_ " he promised. " _I'm ok._ "

* * *

Dean walked numbly back through the corridors. He was astounded to see that no one had noticed the sound of the bullet, no one had ran off to check. There was something astounding about the way humans reacted to things. And something deeply terrifying as well.

It only took a few minutes of searching for Dean to find Sam, and as soon as he did, the two brothers walked over to each other.

Dean stared up at his little brothers face, like caught in a prayer of worship, and Sam stared at Dean like he was delivering a promise.

With a huff Dean pulled Sam into a thudding hug, chest against chest, arms wrapped tightly and perfectly around each other's shoulders. Dean could feel Sam's warmth, his life, beneath his clothes and against his clenching fingertips, and Sam's hands bracing along his back.

Dean released and they stepped back, just looking at each other.

* * *

Emma convinced them all to stay for one last thing. As a way of advertising, the Supernatural TV show creators had initiated a best dressed competition for the third day of activity. There were a series of elements that had to be filled, but essentially, best Sam, Dean, Castiel and Monster.

Sam watched, eyes still a little glassy, as the winner for best monster, dressed as the Scarecrow from all the way back when, fist pumped to the crowd as he went up to get his reward.

"This is so weird," Dean murmured. He grimaced as the scarecrow guy did another series of fist pumps around the stage, and Sam had to look away to stave off second hand embarrassment.

Even Charlie, who was normally into that nerdy sort of stuff, winced at the guys display. "You'd think he just won the Hunger Games or something."

Dorothy leaned in close to Charlie. "Was that the one with the girl—"

"Yes."

Dorothy nodded and righted herself, watching as the presenter prepared to announce the best dressed Cas.

"Well, cash prize of $200 certainly isn't a life of luxury," Emma shrugged. "But it's worth something."

"$200?" Dean echoed, and for a moment, he looked a little wistful as he watched the stage. "You and me, Sammy, that's 400 bucks."

"We could stay in a nice hotel for one night," Sam agreed.

"Or stay in a mediocre hotel for two nights," Dean agreed.

"Your life is so sad," Emma informed them.

The crowd burst into applause as the Castiel of the day walked up to accept his prize.

They settled down quickly after that, and Sam and Dean were admittedly curious as to see who the judges thought had best portrayed them.

"Well," the show runner smile out to the people. "It's been a road, hasn't it? Before we announce the Sam and Dean of the day, we have something to say in regards to the set up of the show."

Emma grabbed Sam's wrist in excitement. "No _way_."

Sam looked at her in confusion. "No way what?"

Emma just shushed him.

"The network and I have come to an agreement that we will be following the boys journey directly," he said, and Sam felt Emma's hand on his wrist tighten. "We will _not_ be introducing the angel story line until at _least_ season 4."

There was a moment of shocked silence and then anxious applause. Dean looked around at the thrilled crowd with a sinking resignation in his gut. Sam didn't look too pleased either, and Charlie looked at them, half caught up in glee and the other in sympathy.

"Aright, alright." He smiled again. "We thank you for your loyalty, and your enthusiasm. Now, our Sam and Dean of the day, is..." He took a second to look out to the crowd. "John Ford and Steven Cage!"

Emma turned to them, a massive smile on her face. Sam and Dean looked at her, and understanding sunk in soon after that.

"Oh, _no_ ," Sam told her. " _No_."

"Why'd you do this to us, Emma?" Dean asked her. "What did we ever do to you?"

"Go get your money, you idiots," Emma rolled her eyes, and unwillingly, Sam and Dean made their way to the stage.

"This is terrifying," Sam informed Dean, hissing, staring back at the people who watched them as they walked, tugging on his collar as they walked towards the stairs.

"This is also $400," Dean pointed out.

Sam swallowed a groan and hoped that he wasn't too red when they finally got up onto the stage.

"...and not only were your outfits almost perfect, but your characterisation was spot on as well," the show runner shook his head, and with a twinkle in his eye, surveyed them critically. "In fact, either of you interested in a life of acting? You'd both make a mean Sam and Dean."

Like when they'd been zapped to that alternate universe, that wasn't so alternate anymore? And then Sam thought about trying to act out his own life and felt his face heat up, red and ugly like a beetroot, despite the fact that he'd promised himself he wouldn't.

"Not for us, thanks," Dean smiled tightly, barely holding onto his sanity, and they left as soon as they could after that.


	17. Samson and Delilah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean find themselves dealing with one of the most painful memories from their past.

"Yeah, can I get the..." Dean grimaced and waved his hands about his head. Sam nearly darted forward to catch the gas pump as it fell, but Dean grasped onto it tightly. "You know the ones...the...?"

Sam stared at his brother and leant forward a little. "Pie?"

Dean gave Sam a look. "You know, Sammy, I am _more_ than my love for pie."

"Are you?" Sam crossed his arms over his chest and gave Dean a look. "Are you _really_?"

"Shut up Sam," Dean advised his younger brother, and smirking, Sam conceded, giving Dean a wide smile before he left the car park and walked up into the gas station.

Coming back from the Con with Charlie, the brothers had decided to a pit stop in New York. For no reason. But Sam had suggested that, still a little shaken by his near death experience, they take life by the reins and charge through the world with as little regrets as possible. Carpe diem and all that crap. Emma had been... _nice_ , but Sam hadn't wanted to start anything there. She was too young for him, his brother had killed her ex and up until a few days ago, she thought that he'd been fictional. Dean pointed out that a girl who understood all of Sam's baggage would be preferable to a girl he had to spell it all out to again, but then Sam countered with his lack of need of a girl in the first place.

He _didn't_ want to start a relationship. Not now. He felt like he and Dean were on the edge of something, and if they toppled down, they'd never be able to climb back up. But he didn't know what was down there, and he didn't know if the things he fought on the edge of his cliff would be able to follow him. Whether, if they fell, they'd survive the drop.

But Sam didn't want to try. He'd made a home for himself on that isolated stretch of life. He had Dean, and he had the Impala, and the world was easing back a bit. The only hands on his shoulders were Dean's.

And Sam wanted it to stay like this. In this after haze, like the slow waking up after a nightmare.

And so it was with Emma that Sam had finally really figured out that he didn't want anything, not anymore. Nothing but this job, that he did out of obligation and necessity, and his brother, who he loved fully and fiercely. His world was slowing, creating a more bearable pressure.

There was no demon blood clouding his thinking, no immediate grief, no fear, no Fate hanging like a knife over their necks. For once, Sam was thinking clearly. And it was so freeing, so refreshing. He could see how his life would pan out. He could see everything. And that was ok.

There was no longer an ultimate meaning to his life, and that was ok.

He had this job, and he had his brother, and that was it. And that was _ok_.

He walked up to the front counter and hit the bell, waiting patiently as the cashier appeared from the room behind the counter. Something about her struck a familiar chord within Sam, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He'd seen those eyes before, somehow, he'd seen those eyes before.

Sam's ease and sincerity melted off when he remembered what coincidences were in his life. He felt cold and hard and tired when he wondered what the girl was. Where he'd seen her before.

He shrugged it off quickly, trying to tell himself that he'd never seen her. That he was imagining things. That he'd finally gone as paranoid as Rufus and as senile as Bobby. Old age came at a much younger age for Hunters, but he'd never taken it in a literal sense; more 'the good die young' and less Benjamin Button.

"Hi," she smiled at him, her cotton jackets sleeved bunched at her hands. "Just the gas?"

"Uh, no," Sam said, looking down the length of chocolates, hyper aware of everything he did. He finally chose one, and brought it down to the table. "This too."

"Right," the girl entered the information into the computer, and then looked at him expectantly. "Altogether that's $63. Anything else I can do for you?"

Sam felt his heart pick up as he noticed, by the heated oven where savouries and buckets of fries awaited purchase, a canister of salt stood, innocent. "Maybe, uh, one more thing."

Sam walked over carefully, he knew she watched each step. Perhaps she saw how forced they were, how careful. Perhaps she knew. She had followed him, hadn't she? If she'd followed him, then she'd wanted to be figured out. If she was a demon, she would have adopted a new host. If she was an angel, she would have possessed another vessel. But she didn't.

She didn't do any of those things.

Sam didn't need the salt. He didn't need the chips. He was playing a game now that only he was fully aware of. Only he could see all the pieces on the board.

Sam grasped the fries from inside the heater, and then the salt. He held it like it was lighter than it was, and, smiling over to the woman, he showed it to her. "I think it's a little empty. Could you refill it?"

And, like a set in a game of chess, she nodded. "Could you bring it here? I think we have some up the back."

Sam held onto the unsalted fries and the 'empty' canister like lifelines and brought them to where she had directed. The woman disappeared behind the wall, and Sam heard everything, the twittering of birds, the ticking of the seconds as a clock wound down to the current time, and the slamming of the Impala's door.

Sam swallowed and, with slow, deliberate fingers, texted Dean.

The woman appeared around the corner, and Sam looked up from his phone, smiling and stuffing it in his back pocket.

Surely she knew that he saw it all. Surely she could feel the tension, aching and festering, in the air.

"Here," she said, heaving a sack onto the bench. She scoffed in laughter and shook her head. "Totally professional of me, right?"

"Oh, no, it's fine," Sam dismissed her worries with another fake smile. "I was the one who was being totally anal."

She screwed the top of the salt off and when she saw it, white, glistening and three quarters of the way full, she frowned. "Well, I don't really know where your definition of 'empty' is, but—"

"I was worried I'd spill it," Sam said in a low voice, looking at her with a quiet intensity.

"That's sort of—"

Sam let his hand, that had been pressed onto the bench top, nudge next to the canister and send it over, the particles spraying out across the table and onto her skin.

She jerked back violent and clutched at her arm, slamming into the wall as she reacted, face screwed up in pain.

Sam just watched her, and Dean stepped into the shop.

The girl, the demon, crouched on the ground, her skin red and inflamed where the salt had touched it.

She hissed and glared up at the Winchester brothers. Sam swallowed when he saw her eyes, menacing and obsidian black.

It seemed almost ironic that the way he'd recognised her vessel had been because of her eyes. Because there they were now, lightless and evil. He stared at her, and the abyss that thrashed within the girl's body _snarled_ back.

"Demon," Dean affirmed, staring down at her.

The Demon girl laughed, and though she was still breathless with pain, she grinned. "Sammy, Dean. Good to see you again."

"I know I've seen you before," Sam watched her face carefully. Her eyes, focus on her eyes. That was what had triggered it. And suddenly Sam was a thousand miles away, in a gas station outside of New York, with a the girl in front of him. Had she been possessed when they'd first met?

Sam watched her grin, and he knew that she had been.

"And I've seen you, buddy boy," she eased herself into a sitting position and held her brunt arm over her chest. "Trust me, it ain't no thing."

"Kristy," Sam said, thinking hard. The Gas station, Meg, the newly released demons, and...

Sam swallowed; _the newly released demons_.

"It's coming to you, isn't it?" she said, in a near whisper.

"Hey," Dean interjected, looking first, worried, at Sam, and then back to the girl. "You don't talk to him."

And that old, God, that _ancient_ anger fought behind Sam's eyes. Red and _red_ and _biting_. She had started it, she had started it _all_. She had forced his hand and manipulated him and his brother and kissed him when he hadn't wanted to be kissed. Now she was here, of all the demons, of all the places, of all the way things could have gone wrong.

"Ruby," Sam stared at her, and she dropped the smile under his murderous glare. " _Ruby_."

He would have lunged and choked the _life_ out of her if it hadn't been for Dean. His brother stepped in front of him and restrained him.

Dean pushed him back and Sam stumbled slightly, glaring at Dean like a kicked dog.

Dean pointed at him. "You, be cool." But when he looked at Ruby, there was no pity in his eyes. It hadn't been compassion for the demon that had compelled Dean Winchester to stop his brother from bearing down on the catalyst, the bane of their existence. "You, you can die again, you murderous hag."

"I thought you might take this badly," Ruby muttered, pushing her hair back, shaking off her hand, the skin already less inflamed. "Can we be grown ups, about this? Why do you think I haven't smoked out? I need to talk to you. To both of you."

"And what the Hell makes you think we want to talk to _you_?" Sam demanded, feeling every word rise up inside him like a tidal wave. Like a scratch he couldn't itch, it just grew and heightened. He hated her, he _hated_ her, _he hated her_.

"Because I have information," she managed. She gave a bark of a laugh, as though at any minute, Sam and Dean were going to drop their pretences and welcome her back as if she'd never gone. As if they'd never killed her. As if she'd never forced their hand or started the apocalypse.

She would get no forgiveness. From either of them.

Sam had died to protect the world, died to clean up Ruby's mess, and burnt for it.

And Dean had never taken kindly to when people hurt his brother.

"What did you want to tell us?" Dean finally asked. Wondering how it was, that of the two of them, _he_ was the one with the level head. Sam looked at him, hurt, betrayed, but Dean knew that if they had swapped positions, Sam would be doing the exact same thing. Demons lied, but Ruby might know something.

And that something might be worth knowing for themselves.

"I want your word, first," Ruby stood up and dusted her knees of the dust from the ground. Her eyes darted from brother to brother. "You won't kill me, and you won't send other hunters after me."

Dean looked over to Sam, and knew that even if he had wanted to make that deal, Sam would never agree to his half in it. Ruby gave a tiny smirk, and it was that, in the end, that sent Dean over the edge.

He stared at her, unbelieving. How was someone so obviously bad, so convinced that their actions were justified? How could someone be so infuriatingly self-centred?

Sam understood; Ruby had come back, knew that once the Winchesters had learnt she was alive, they wouldn't hesitate in hunting her down and killing her again. But she'd underestimated them. She confused them for the two boys she'd met after Dean had sold his soul to bring Sam back to life. Things had changed, and they weren't the same people. They didn't want the same things. Screw the information, Sam thought.

Dean, however, found a best of both worlds alternative.

He dug his hands into his pocket and pulled out a flask, and, quickly, before Ruby could react, flung the holy water from the mouth over her body. She screamed and, in her pain, shot forward and grasped both her hands, forcing them down into a pair of cuffs.

Sam watched it happen with a stony exterior. He didn't want her captured, he wanted her _dead_.

"What are you—"

"Sammy, I want you to turn the sign to closed," Dean nodded to the door, and Sam tightened his jaw in response. "And then, I need you to clear the surveillance tapes. I'll take care of the bitch. We good?"

Sam nodded, short, affirmative.

"Little Sammy," Ruby breathed, tucked up against Dean's chest and grinning. She had lost, but it didn't mean she wasn't going to enjoy it. "Still following his big brothers orders. I thought I'd snapped that out of you. I guess that's what they say about hard work." She huffed a laugh through her breathlessness, pain gathering as Dean tightened the grip he had on her arms. "It goes unnoticed."

Dean willed Sam not to snap. Ruby had always been a no-fly zone. The last time that he'd mentioned her had been when he'd been asking Sam if the mark was turning him mad.

_No, Dean. You're not turning into me._

"Please don't talk to me," Sam said, in that quiet, sad voice. He looked at Dean, his gaze deadened, defeated. "Please don't let her talk to me."

Ruby watched after him, and that part of her that had cared for Sam Winchester, truly cared for the man she'd been sent to manipulate, started to tug as he walked away. She was supposed to have been his queen. She had kissed him and taught him and laughed at his jokes. And somewhere along the way, she started to look at him and _see_ him. Beyond a boy that was to be sculpted into something deeper. Beyond Lucifer's future vessel.

He'd been Sam. Just Sam. And he'd trusted her.

Ruby felt that now. Felt that tugging in her stomach.

She didn't respond to it, didn't call out to Sam, didn't thrash against Dean or beg for mercy. She was just still. Still and quiet, and she didn't object as Dean pulled her away.

Sam watched as they leaved and then, without a sound, walked over to the door. He flipped the sign from 'open' to 'closed', and reached down to lock the door.

He took a steadying breath. And another. And another. He tried _really_ hard.

He tightened his jaw and could feel his teeth grating on one another, bones scraping mercilessly against bone.

With a scream he punched through the glass, and felt his hand light up on fire as the glass rained down on either side. Tiny flecks caught in his knuckles and glittered like fairy dust along his arms and shirt. Everywhere that it landed, the tiny pieces cut into his skin. It burned, it hurt, and Sam didn't turn around when he heard Dean return.

"Dude!" Dean exclaimed. "What the Hell? I thought I told you to be cool!"

Sam turned, and he made sure his face was a vision of calmness. He looked at Dean without fault, without guilt. "Sorry. I didn't know what I was doing."

"Sammy," Dean sighed, and Sam knew he was forgiven. Like he hadn't been. Because. Of. Her.

Sam felt his jaw, the muscles aching with the stress, tighten up again. "Don't Dean, ok? Just... _don't_."

Dean fell quiet, and Sam looked down at the mess, at the glass and the blood, drops still falling like summer rain from the tips of his fingers. His big brother started to walk over, coming to a stop just as he met Sam, face to face.

But Sam's head was still bowed.

"Let me look at that, hey?" Dean reached out for Sam's hand, and Sam accepted. Dean held it in his own and treated it like such a perfect, fragile thing, that Sam wanted to smash another window, or cry.

"Let's go sit down?" Dean suggested, and though Sam said nothing, he allowed himself to be tugged along, Dean leading him through the shop to where there were plastic tables and chairs set up for the staff.

Sam sat haltingly, the pain staring to mess up his muscle movements, motor neurons scrammed as his body fought to deal with the pain. His breathing was beginning to hitch, and his throat tighten. He felt the blood, hot and sticky on his skin.

"Here," Dean offered. Sam hesitated, but then extended out his hand. Dean grasped it and from somewhere, he'd conjured a pair of tweezers.

"Sorry," Sam said finally. He looked up and saw Dean not looking at his face, but fully invested in his hand. He felt the metal move across the tender, raw flesh, but didn't even wince. He'd had worse.

His stomach shifted with fury. Because of _her_.

Perhaps it was good that she was alive, because now, at least, they might have closure. Now, at least, when he killed her, she'd just be another demon who'd screwed them over. He'd had nearly 6 years to get over her betrayal, and he should have used it more wisely.

Who can blame him, though? He thought he'd have eternity.

"I thought she was dead," Sam said finally. "I thought she was gone."

Dean didn't reply, still bending over the hand. "Hey, can you move your fingers like—yeah, thanks."

"She ruined everything," Sam said finally. He was watching Dean to see what his reaction was, but so far, his older brother had just been contemplative. Eyes fixed on the ruin of Sam's hand. "She made me raise Lucifer, started the whole damn apocalypse... Jo, Ellen, Rufus, Bobby, Adam; everyone who was killed after that was just a domino piece. And she was the one who shifted the first tile."

"I think you're giving her a little too much credit," Dean said, his voice nonchalant as he turned Sam's hand over to inspect the palm. "There were more players in kick-starting the apocalypse than just her."

"Yeah, sure," Sam agreed, excited by Dean's participation. "But she was..." Sam grimaced.

Dean looked up. "Personal."

Sam felt his brothers stare, and looked away, staring blankly to the floor. "Yeah."

"Well," Dean leaned back and clapped Sam on the knee. "Said demonic pain in our asses is currently entertained by the highly invigorating storage wall and a funny bunch of circles and squiggles on the floor, so we've got a few minutes to wash that cut and bandage it up."

Sam nodded and held his hand carefully in front of his chest, not unlike Ruby had when he'd sprayed her with salt. "Ok."

"Just ok?" Dean asked, and there was a smile to his lips, touched in his voice. He was trying to make Sam feel better, trying to cheer him up. Dean had always hated Ruby, but it was Sam who had been betrayed by her. It was Sam who'd felt the cold claws of realisation sink into his chest when the tables had turned. When the world had started its own countdown timer. "No, thank you Dean, I don't know what I'd do without you, you're my guardian angel—"

Sam rolled his eyes and shoved Dean with his good hand. "Jerk."

Dean grinned. "Bitch."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Where's the water?"

"There's probably a tap in the men's room," Dean directed, and together they walked in companionable silence to the back of the shop. Dean held the door open and Sam ducked his head when he walked in, wrinkling his nose against the affront, but not reacting beyond that. There was a disgusting consistency with the state of public urination stations, and Sam had never found this part of the job to be the most glamorous or rewarding.

"Here," Dean turned the tap on, and gingerly, Sam extended out his fingers, wincing and biting back a hiss of pain as the cool liquid hit. Dean turned to Sam, reacting to Sam's pain. "Too much?"

"No, no," Sam said hastily. "I'm fine. Just..." Sam swallowed. "Sore."

"Well, you made an enemy out of a window," Dean muttered, tilting Sam's hand for him so that the blood ran off into the sink. "You can't be all that surprised."

Sam forced back a sigh of relief as Dean cut the water, and the stream was brought off Sam's hand. It was still bleeding, but the worst of the blood was gone and any of the smaller pieces of glass that Dean would have missed. "I'm not."

"Alright," Dean straightened, and he let Sam reclaim possession of his ruined hand. "They got any whiskey in this joint?"

Sam studied it, offering a half shrug. "Do you think it'll need stitches?"

Dean gave it another look and screwed up his mouth. "Maybe. Do _you_ think it needs stitches?"

Sam studied his hand again. "Yeah, I think so. I don't want it to get infected."

"Smart move," Dean said, and Sam rolled his eyes. "Here, I think I saw some whiskey behind the counter."

Sam nodded and they walked off, in a sort of still, entire, silence. The glass was still on the ground, and as Sam saw his brother look at it, he knew that Dean was working through the different ways in which it could be fixed. Sam knew that it was probably his responsibility, but he didn't ever want to look at that window again.

He didn't want to see this gas station ever again. He wanted to leave and never come back.

"We'll have to clean that up," Dean said conversationally, bending over as they came to a stop behind the counter and rifling through the bottles of alcohol to find the best one.

"Do you want me to go and get the sewing kit?" Sam asked, knowing that if he did, he would have a respite, a moment, in which he could just look at the sky. The world was a stifling place in doors, and he didn't want anything to do with it. It was too hot, too _much_.

He had not stopped.... _feeling_ , since he had arrived here. And it was exhausting.

His hand throbbed hot and painful, and knives dug into his skin whenever it brushed against something.

Ruby, like a phantom at the back of his mind, closed in around him. He could think of nothing but her, see nothing but her. All these years, and she could still control him, still get into his head. The only problem was, that this time, hate was the driving force. And hate was a lot more explosive and a lot more unpredictable.

Hate could be controlled, but Sam was an element that had become self aware, an atom with a vendetta. And he wouldn't let this one go. He wouldn't give up on this vengeance.

"Nah, I still got it," Dean stuffed his hand into his pocket and flashed it to Sam. "From that wendigo thing, remember?"

Sam frowned. "I thought I told you— _asked_ you—to put that back?"

Dean placed it onto the table and gave Sam an odd look. "Well, you have to be glad that I didn't _now_."

Sam just gave Dean a tight, disappointed look and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Make sure you don't bite your tongue, Francis," Dean said, and raised the alcohol bottle up over Sam's hand, meeting Sam's eyes for a second before he tipped it over.

Sam hissed but didn't move, fighting against the rising panic of pain that shot up, lightning bolts from the ruined skin of his hand.

"Ok," Dean flicked his lighter on and prepared the needle. "This ain't gonna be easy. You need anything for the pain before we start."

Sam swallowed when he shook his head. If Dean noticed how his chin trembled slightly, there was no show of it on his brothers expectant face. "No. Just get it over and done with."

"Famous last words," Dean informed Sam brightly and, holding Sam's hand with a careful, firm grip, dug the black thread through and around Sam's skin in his practised, measured movements.

Sam could have done it himself. The hand injured was his left one, and even if it had been his right he had used his left enough to be able to passably do the job. But Dean had done it anyway. There was something simple but important about that. Sam thought about their life this time the year previously, and wondered if Dean was thinking about it as well. They'd come back from it; he knew that they would. They were the Winchester brothers and nothing could drive a permanent wedge between them, not even each other.

But if this was last year, then Sam couldn't imagine it. He couldn't see aggro, pent up Dean bending patiently over Sam's hand as he deftly sewed up his wound. That Dean had had an angry mark on his arm and a scowl for everything.

Sam didn't want to go back to that. Dean losing the mark was the first boon the universe had granted them. Long awaited but welcome nonetheless.

"You ok?" Dean looked up, and Sam took the time to look down at his hand. Dean was focusing on a deeper cut that ran just above his knuckles in the softer skin of his palm.

"I'm fine," Sam smiled, but he couldn't meet his brothers eyes. It was almost a betrayal, wasn't it? To think about Dean as if he was a reformed monster, when he was being so calm. So gentle.

"Ok," Dean said, voice a little too light, a little too forced. He sensed what was amiss. He knew Sam better than he knew himself. Sometimes Sam forgot that, sometimes Sam remembered everything and wondered how either of them could know the other.

 _Brother_. Brother, to the tune of his heart. Brother, like a lullaby sung over and over again, a baby staring at their patient mother with a reverence that would have humbled an angel into kneeling.

"I'm sorry," Sam managed, and though he didn't look up, and though he didn't know what else to say to fully explain all he wanted to say, he knew Dean understood. He knew Dean _knew_.

* * *

Sam's bandaged hand sat on one knee as he and Dean positioned themselves opposite Ruby. She still had the cuffs on her arms, though she was in the centre of a giant red devils trap. She was glaring at them, head tilted downward, forcing her eyes to gaze from beneath the top lashes as she glowered.

Dean took a bite of the handful of chips that he'd found. He chewed loudly and arrogantly, but neither Sam or Ruby reacted.

"Tell us what you know," Sam told her evenly.

Ruby turned to Dean, and Sam stowed his irritation. "I want to talk to Sam alone before I say anything."

"Absolutely not," Dean dismissed, pulling another handful out of the bag.

Ruby pulled back slightly, as if surprised. "Excuse me? Do you want to hear me out or not?"

"The only reason you are not dead yet," Dean explained to her, his voice heaped on top of anger. Pure, all consuming and magnificent. He'd pushed it down for Sam's stakes, but being in the same room as her was grating. Knowing that she wanted a private audience with Sam only pushed salt into the wound. "Is because we have a vague interest in what you know. So, no. You're _not_ talking with Sam."

Ruby crossed her arms as well as she could with the cuffs on her wrists. "Then I don't talk."

"Fine by us," Dean took another bite and stared at her, unblinking.

"Dean," Sam said quietly, looking at his brother.

"Absolutely not," Dean reiterated. He turned to Sam, annoyed. "I'm not leaving you along with the she-witch who fucked up the world!"

"The world seems plenty fine to me," Ruby snapped, and Dean wisely chose to ignore her. She was wrong, of course. The world was nearly broken beyond repair, and it was only this year that the change had been growth rather than decay. The wildfire had spread its wings throughout the forest, and now the seeds had embedded themselves into the earth and the rain eased into the soil.

But the world was far from healthy.

And people had _suffered_ to bring it as far as it was.

"I'll talk to her, Dean," Sam said, and though it was posed as a suggestion, there was a bite underneath it that Dean couldn't ignore. If his little brother thought that he would be able to handle revisiting the worst year of Dean's life, then fine. Dean had to remind himself, again and again, that it was _Sam's_ choice. That he was a person, a mind and a heart, beyond just Dean's little brother.

Dean took a long look at Sam and slowly nodded. "If you're sure."

Sam was far from enthusiastic, but certain as he nodded in response.

Ruby had blessedly fallen silent throughout the exchange. Dean wasn't sure if he could trust himself if she made one more snide comment.

"I'll just be outside," Dean said, feeling his heart beat uncomfortably fast. It was like when they'd refused to let Sam and Brady in the same room, because they thought that, in a fit of rage, Sam would kill the demon who had been instrumental in ruining his life. But he didn't. Dean had underestimated him then, and many other times besides.

Sam could handle himself. Sam had conviction and strength. Sam would be fine.

"Ok," Sam said, and he was back to that dead look. He'd been smiling recently; Dean had caught him. Real, full smiles. Not unlike the ones he'd given when they'd first hit the road together to find their Dad. Dimples and all, with eyes that lit up and that dopey, contagious grin that had been absent from the world for so long.

Sammy wasn't smiling now.

Dean got up, glared at the demon, and knew that both his brother and she watched him as he went. His footsteps thudded unanswered across the floor, and when he shut the door behind him, he couldn't help feel that he had made a big mistake.

Dean sighed and leaned against the door, and then a thought occurred to him. Meg. She'd said that no one important had jumped the gun and Houdini'd their way out of the Demon Afterlife, and here they were, knee deep in something she probably could have mentioned earlier.

* * *

A pin could have dropped and Sam would have heard it. He heard and felt everything else. The air was still enough that he was sure, should Ruby blink, the waves through the air would brush lightly against his still sore hand. The clock he'd heard ticking before was still loud and grating.

"So," Ruby smiled at him. It was a warm, human smile. Ruby had been so good at mirroring the traits of the people around her. Loyal and pious when she was talking to Dean, emotional and determined when it came to Sam. Charming, endlessly charming.

Sam had to give her credit, honestly, for how talented she was at lying.

"Cut the crap," Sam told her, and though her smile faltered, it didn't fade.

The falter caught him, though. What had she expected? That she'd swoop in, and within minutes he'd be drinking her blood again, chasing down another big bad for them to finish up? Did she _honestly_ think that she would be forgiven?

Sam stared at her. _Never_. Never forgiven.

"What do you want?"

"What do _I_ want?" Ruby asked, as if surprised that Sam would notice she would desire things. "I want to go freely within the world. Is that too much to ask? I'm getting a second shot at this. I don't want to screw it up."

"Like last time?" Sam suggested, eyes cold.

Ruby tilted her head. "I guess so." She smiled. "So, Sammy." Sam knew she was goading him, but he felt the surge or irritation anyway. _Sammy_ , as though she was his and she was hers, and there was a tie between them. "How's life been?"

"Terrible," Sam answered truthfully. "After we stopped the apocalypse, life just became more and more messy. A knight of Hell tried to take over the planet, Dean was overcome by the first mark, the Leviathans of purgatory nearly succeeded in ruling earth, and Heaven is only just righting the corruption that has been integral to their way of life for centuries."

Ruby winced. "I'm gonna need to catch up on my TV shows."

"Well, Oliver," Sam smiled humourlessly. He hadn't blinked since their eyes had met, and from the way Ruby sat, feet angled towards each other, hair spilling over her shoulders and in front of her face, she was finally starting to get it. For Sam, there was no going back. For Sam, Ruby wasn't coming out of this alive. There was nothing she could say that would make her valuable enough to keep. Nothing she could do that would halt the process. "Five years was a long time to be cut off from civilisation. Maybe it's time you filled yourself in."

Ruby would die. It wasn't even a question, it was a statement of fact. Sam's resolve was icy cold with all the strength and raw beauty of uncut diamonds.

Ruby would reap all the rewards of the years that pressed down on him, as if testing to see how much it took to make a human boy break.

Ruby raised an eyebrow. "Maybe it is."

"Enough with this, ok?" Sam said, near snapping point. "What is it you really wanted to tell me, Ruby? What was important enough that it took you giving away your little secret?"

She just smiled, and Sam read her like a book. Perhaps she wasn't as smart as she thought she was. She'd demanded a price and now, _now_ , the information was finally worth something. She'd put a price to it and made it desirable. She'd given it credibility, gotten under the Winchester's skin and retained the power in the conversation, despite the fact that she was trapped and cuffed in the middle of a Devil's Trap with the two people on the earth who hated her the most.

"Dean!" She called, and Sam just sat, almost in awe, watching her.

Sam turned when the door opened and gave Dean a half smile as he walked in.

"Thanks for coming," Ruby said, eyes following him as he crossed the room. Sam could tell, as his shoulders tensed, that he wanted nothing more than to retaliate with some harsh words, to lash out at her. But still he kept his head. Still he watched from a distance and followed Sam's cues.

"So," Dean sat and tilted his head. "What's the news?"

"You remember the Seven Deadly sins, right?" Ruby asked them, still in that overly confident set, her shoulders twisted so that she faced them. Her eyes were fixed on Dean, but all three of them knew that she was really noticing Sam. Sam, who sat, quiet and sad, with his hand sore, red blood caught under his fingernails.

Dean didn't give her any more of an answer than a "Yeah."

"Good, this'll be quick to explain, then," Ruby placed her hands on her knees, almost daintily, like she was being proper and prim and their _friend_. Whatever she said next would have to be taken with a grain of salt. Neither Sam nor Dean thought that she was telling the truth, and Sam was sure that she knew where they were coming from. Ruby was very self aware. She knew her limits, her strengths.

She knew how to conquer the board, and to do that, as she was, she first had to entirely control herself.

"What about them?" Sam finally asked, snapping. He hadn't been prepared for how venomous he'd sound.

Ruby shrugged his misdemeanour off with ease, with an unsettling decorum. "Right. Well, they're back. Fought back the black and came into the light like the rest of us slimy assholes."

"Please don't say 'slimy assholes'," Dean grimaced.

"Sorry," Ruby apologised, though her voice was unchanged, unapologetic. "Anyway, they're up and kicking, and they're mad."

"What, at us?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrow, and looking to Sam, who just shrugged. "They've certainly taken their time in coming after us if they were seeking revenge."

"Well, I don't know that much," Ruby shrugged and sat back. Sam watched her unsettling comfort, the way she felt no need to comfort herself. The way she only really seemed put off whenever Sam was thrown into the picture. Maybe that was why she had been talking to Dean over him, why discussion had been entertained almost entirely by his older brother. "But I _do_ know that of all the people left alive on Earth, it's you two that they'll want the most."

Sam was a chip in her armour. She couldn't have thought that she'd come back to life and that he would be happy to see her, but maybe she didn't get the message six years ago when he restrained her as Dean stabbed her up through her stomach.

"We killed some of them," Dean nodded. "But we exorcised the rest. Why didn't the others just climb out and take us like, five years ago?"

"And yet again," Ruby said, irritation sneaking into her tone. "I don't have all the details."

"You sure know very little for something you're supposed to be giving us information about," Dean was as easily comfortable as her, except where she was shackled, he was free. Dean knew that, she knew that, and watching them play with each other, the boy who had defeated the Mark of Cain and Ruby, the witch who had turned into a demon and gone onto kick start the apocalypse; was interesting. But to Sam it was his brother and it was his worst nightmare; and it was terrifying.

Ruby's gaze was still confident, but stony, her eyes unblinkingly set about Dean's face. Sam was reminded with that, that Ruby really hated Dean as well. "Well, I'm sorry. But I don't have all the answers. I got all the information and then I got the hell out."

Dean let the silence that created itself after she had spoken stretch out. He was sitting, staring at her, and Sam felt like he was a bystander outside of his own body. If he had wanted to participate in the conversation, then he would have. But he didn't trust himself, and he didn't trust Ruby, and his hand hurt.

"You sure you're telling us this out of the goodness of your heart?" Dean asked. His voice was light, and Sam heard the undertones of anger and hatred like it had been painted across Dean's eyelids in a set of red, harsh paint. "Wait, lemme guess. Because you _used to be human_."

Ruby shifted warningly, and Sam wondered if she was considering flashing her black eyes. "Don't joke about that. I _do_ remember being human."

"Just because you had a pumpin', beating heart doesn't mean that you were human," Dean informed her shortly. "Plenty of monsters look like humans, act like humans, and are, for all intents and purposes, humans." Dean's words should have cut her, and may have cut her, but her face was unmoved. Just quietly amused, like she was listening into a joke that she alone could hear at their expense. "Sister, there's a reason you went to Hell in the first place, and I don't wanna know if it was the witch thing, or something else."

"I died of the plague, you insufferable _pig_ ," Ruby said, her teeth gritted.

"You're a good liar, Ruby, don't let anyone tell you nothing different," Dean smiled. He leant forward, pressing his elbows into his knees and holding his hands together, fingers curled and pressed into each other. "But you made one fatal mistake with me and Sam, you insufferable, evil _bitch_. You betrayed us and broke the damn world." Dean stood, and Sam followed him. "There ain't no comin' back from that."

* * *

"I hate her," Sam assured him, opening with that as they took a break together in the main store. The wind from the broken window called for jackets, but neither felt much compelled to go and fetch them. "But I think we need to treat her advice with a little dignity. I think we need to make sure that she _is_ lying."

Dean sighed, heavily, but he looked like he agreed with Sam. "I know. But we can't let her go, and we can't kill her. She might know something else."

"So we just check it out?" Sam suggested, tugging his arms over his chest, the cold beginning to turn his fingers frigid. "Just drive to wherever she says they are, take a look around? If they're not there, then we kill her. If they are..." Sam trailed off and worked his jaw. "Well, then she told the truth, didn't she?"

"Yeah," Dean just looked tired. The day was passed midday but not late enough in the day for the sky to have begun to darken. As the year progressed so too did the length of the days. Sam had always preferred Summer to any other season; the stars were always clearer, he and Dean always slowed down with the hunts, and the world just seemed to be a happier place. People's eyes brightened in warmth, humans sat outside with bare legs and sunglasses.

Summer drew near and Dean was exhausted. Sam was tired of his life being so contradictory.

If Ruby had told the truth, Sam didn't know what that would mean for them. Would they let her go? Surely they couldn't, but killing her after she gave them a warning seemed excessive and cruel. But of all the demons that they were to run into, Ruby was the one who deserved Death the most.

Sam just really wanted her gone. Really, really, wanted her gone.

And not even exorcising would be satisfying enough for his anger. Nothing would appease his fury.

"Well, we can't both go," Sam finally said, and Dean looked up, confused. "Someone has to watch Throwback Thursday." Sam nodded to the door.

"Right, yeah, of course," Dean said. Sam felt his brother watching him, and he knew the call that Dean would have to make before he made it. Sam was injured, he was emotionally compromised and Dean still felt that overprotective pull to protect Sam from harm.

Dean pulled his face into a grimace. "An ugly situation we got ourselves into, huh, Sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. He knew as well as Dean how this was going to have to go. And he didn't like it any better.

"If we ask for the address, then she'll think that we believe her," Dean lamented, already given up to what they'd, unspeaking, figured out.

Sam tilted his head. "What's wrong with that? I mean, if she thinks we trust her, we can use that against her."

Dean gave Sam a look full of meaning, and Sam understood immediately. "Well, sure, there ain't nothing _tactically_ wrong with tellin' her that we think she's right when she might not be, but..."

"Then she thinks that we believe her," Sam said darkly. Like admitting to a sadistic wasp that the stings it was inflicting hurt, like assuring a murderer that the people who it gunned for were terrified of it.

"Well, there's not really anything to it," Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over the shorter hairs on the back of his head. "We'll go get the address, and then I'll get the impala ready."

"You sure that you don't want to stay?" Sam said, a little desperately. He thought of being alone, _actually_ alone with her, and it made his mouth dry, made his pupils dilate. He was in no state to confirm the re-existence of seven of the most powerful demons they'd ever met; demons that, also, hated him and Dean with all of their unholy hearts, but staying with Ruby was hardly a good compromise.

"Pretty sure that me goin' is better than me stayin'," Dean shrugged and Sam nodded, holding his head down, so that his shoulders rode up slightly next to his neck. Dean used to tell him that he looked like a dumb ass turtle when he did that. Dean didn't tell him anything much like that anymore.

"Right," Sam cleared his throat waited for Dean to open the door. He didn't see Dean pause, and stare at him like he was a star burning itself out of existence, but he did hear Dean stop. Did hear his brother take a shallow, final breath. He didn't look up. He didn't trust himself to look up.

"C'mon," Dean muttered, patting Sam on the arm, and opening the door so that the brothers could file into the supply closet, one after the other.

Ruby looked up expectantly when they arrived, looking for a moment at Dean, but this time, she converted her stares to the younger Winchester brother. Sam refused to feel uncomfortable, and just stared back. Hard, cold, unyielding. Like the trees that stood ramrod straight in a storm, like the mountains that watched the sea.

"So, what have you two decided?" Ruby asked, smiling expectantly, like a puppy awaiting a treat. "Too big to ignore, or too dangerous to try?"

"We need an address," Dean stated in a way of answer. "And we need it now."

"Fine," Ruby crossed her arms over her chest. "One request, though, before you ask."

Dean shared a quick look with Sam, who gave him a go ahead nod. "What?"

"Some fries? I saw them out there, and now that I'm permanently off duty, well..." Ruby tapped her hands on the stomach of her vessel. "I'm _starving_."

Dean frowned at her, hard. "Are you serious?"

"Yes? Why wouldn't I be?" Ruby made a scoffing noise, and looked to Sam as if expecting him to laugh, or to back her up, turn on Dean and burst out laughing. But he didn't do either of those things, and Ruby's laughter drifted off awkwardly, unmet, scorned.

"I'll get it," Sam said, in a nonchalant voice, moving away before Dean could respond. He guessed that before Dean left, he'd be wanting to talk to Ruby, or, at least, stare her down with one of his alpha wolf glares.

The shop was cool when he went to the oven, but that was still warm. Other than the smashed window, there had been no change to the store, not really. Glass still littered the ground, and Sam decided that, if nothing else than to avoid Ruby, he'd clean it up while Dean had gone.

Sam grabbed a pack of fries, dry and hard now, and carried them with him through the broken store and to the store room.

Sam was right that Dean had wanted to speak to Ruby. She was a lot more sombre now, a lot less smiley, and when he handed her the chips from across the devils trap, she didn't even thank him.

"I'll tell you the address in parts," Ruby told them, but neither reacted beyond a grimace. It had been too much to ask that they just _get_ the damned thing. Ruby would want some reason for them to keep her alive, and while Sam wasn't surprised, he wasn't happy either.

But, then again, neither was he unimpressed.

Ruby was so calculated. He had admired it once, but now he felt sorry for her. The age of angels and demons was coming to a close. Humans ruled the earth that they had been given, and Ruby wasn't even aware of it.

"What's the first part?" Dean asked, tucking his hand into his pocket and fiddling with his keys.

"Drive to the second left exit, take it, then drive to the first town you reach," Ruby recited precisely. "When you get there, call Sam, and I'll tell you the rest."

Sam didn't ask how she knew that he was staying behind, or how she knew that of the two brothers, it was Dean that was going, but he supposed that it was relatively obvious, and he didn't care.

Things as small as that, might have once irked him, but now, looking at the grand scheme of things, he didn't care. He just didn't care.

"Go get 'em, Tiger," Sam farewelled Dean as his brother nodded to him and then gave a half glance back to Ruby, who had started to pick through her chips with an impressive pace.

Dean gave him an amused glance backwards as he left the room, and Sam leant against the wall, looking at the ground and nursing his hand when the rumbling noises of the Impalas engine faded off into the background.

"Looks like it's just you and me now, soldier," Ruby told him, without humour. It was an odd thing to say seriously, but he didn't care. He ignored her and walked out, grabbing an old broom as he did.

He shut the door behind him and trusted in the devils trap and the magic cuffs.

The glass has been spread throughout the store, spaced over the linoleum with gusts of wind and his and Dean's footsteps. He mentally made a list of things to do, and places he had to be before he'd have to see Ruby again, and started them.

He swept for half an hour, taking his time to remove glass fragments from under shelves and through the cracks of draws, around the back of the till and out the front of the shop, where the glass had gathered with that of broken beer bottles and dying plastic bags.

He cleaned it all and threw what he'd collected into the bin, dusting the bottom of his shoes while he was standing outside, and taking a moment to watch the sun as it set beneath the earth.

That stolen moment was a moment too long, and he hurried back inside. He stilled on the threshold and listened out, but he didn't hear anything untoward coming from the storage room. There was breathing, in the stillness of the moment he could make out that much, and the awkward shuffling of a foot along the floor. Ruby was trying to amuse herself. Sam checked his watch.

45 minutes. He still had a lot of time to kill.

He cleaned up the spilt salt on the bench top, stowed the salt bag under the bench and threw the cold chips into the bin. He put money for both the chips that he'd tricked her with and the fries that he'd bought her into the till and tried to remember if he'd paid for petrol.

He couldn't. He decided not to pay for it, if it meant he might be paying twice.

Sam went to the computer, a separate room from the store room but no less cluttered and awful. He worked his way through the server, found where the camera was connected to the system and deleted the day's activities. Before he completely annihilated the file, he watched Ruby the few moments before he walked in.

Sure enough, as soon as she saw that it was them who pulled up, she became increasingly agitated. Nothing like the cool, collected demon he had locked up now.

She was an act. For a strange, justified reason, this made Sam feel a whole lot better about the situation.

He felt his phone buzz and reached down to get it. Dean's caller ID flashed up and Sam swallowed his disappointment. He would have to go in and get her to talk in a moment. He really didn't want to.

"Dean?" Sam answered his phone, swallowing his sigh and hitting the button that would delete all the files.

" _Sammy, hey_ ," Dean said. His voice was gruff on the other end, and slightly distracted, like he was still driving. " _I'm about to hit the town Ruby told me about. Can you get her to tell us what to do next?_ "

"I'll go to her, hang on," Sam adjusted the phone and kept it pressed to his ear when he stood up and moved from the computer room to the storage room.

" _Wait, you're not with her now_?" Dean asked, slightly surprised, but, oddly, not angry. Sam would have been at himself if he'd been in Dean's position. Ruby was crafty, and she'd proved before that she could get out of the Devil's trap, and Sam had left her for an hour and a half by herself.

"No," Sam answered simply, but something in his tone must have given it away, because Dean didn't press the subject. He stopped at the door and clicked it open, eyes seeking Ruby. She looked up at him, blinking at the light that the doorway brought in. The sun had set while he had been busy, and she'd been left in darkness. Her empty fries container was sat neatly on the ground next to her.

He turned to the light switch and, crackling like it hadn't been turned on in a while, the light flickered on. Under the faint buzzing, he turned to Ruby, still holding the phone over his own ear. "I've got her."

" _Ok, good_ ," Dean said, and without waiting for his brother to say anything else, Sam handed the phone to Ruby.

She took it without a word and pressed it to her own ear.

Sam watched her openly. She'd been above ground for a while, he supposed, but she'd lost none of her motor skills, nor her familiarity with modern life. Sam supposed that she would have gotten some of her new world knowledge from the vessel she was possessing, but it didn't help.

From the outside, watching her, it was as if she'd never been dead.

"Ok," Ruby said, after she listened to what Dean was saying. "Now you need to take the interstate towards New York, but take the third exit."

There was some more chatter, and she wrinkled her nose in irritation. "No, look, Dean, I _know_ that—"

More chatter. Sam could hear Dean's deep voice as a stream from the speaker of the phone.

"Do you want to find these demons or not, asshole?"

Ruby pulled the phone away from her ear soon after that and, giving a huffed sigh, handed it back to Sam.

He took it and made to walk out. He was out of jobs but he was sure he'd come up with something. Anything would have been better than staying here. With her.

"Whoa, Sammy," Ruby chided as he went to go. "You gonna leave me here on my lonesome again? I've been bored, all by myself."

Sam stopped, but he didn't turn to respond. He held his jaw tight to see what she would do.

"Sammy, Sammy, come on—"

"Don't call me that," Sam turned and snapped at her, the fingers that were clutching the phone dug into the screen, nails painfully clawed against the metal.

Ruby just gave a relieved laugh. "Thank god. I thought you were _never_ going to talk to me."

Sam restrained himself by chewing on the inside of his bottom lip.

Ruby's smile waned and she sighed. "Look, Sam. I don't wanna talk, but I don't wanna be alone. It was really dark before and..." She looked pitiful, looking up at him, hands clasped on her lap like a young school girl. "And I'm not so fond of the dark. Anymore."

Sam took careful steps to the chair that Dean had been sitting in when they'd first taken her. He placed his phone dutifully into his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest, making sure not to irritate his injured hand.

"Thanks, Sam," Ruby said sincerely.

And Sam, as usual, did not respond.

* * *

From the get go, something had smelt off to Dean. He'd followed Ruby's directions at first, but then, when it was obvious that he was in the middle of nowhere, he started to have his doubts. He followed her second set, though, because there _was_ an interstate, and the map he'd pinched from the collection on the rack beside the doorway _did_ say that there was a third exit on the way she'd told him to go.

But he couldn't trust her. And her directions had been too general. He supposed that there were usually third exits, and towns connected to the interstate, and a 'second left'.

It finally got to the point, driving along another deserted road for too long of a time, when he swallowed his pride and pulled his phone out.

Dean spared a few moments from the road and entered in the name he was looking for in the search bar at the top of his contacts list. It came up, but it took another five minutes of brooding and listening to a David Bowie song before he finally hit call.

He switched the radio off as it dialled, and the sound of him alone, with just the tires on the road and the thrum of baby's engine threw him.

He was utterly alone out here. There wasn't anyone. No people, no animals.

Dean swallowed. No demons.

" _Well look here, Clark Kent finally decides to answer my calls,_ " Meg's voice was just as grating, irritating and pompous as he remembered it. But in a way, her familiarity comforted Dean. Of all the old acquaintances he had in his life right now, she was not the most problematic. " _Want to help me nail Crowley? Because I've been looking for him everywhere, and the slippery bastard—_ "

"Meg," Dean cut her off and she fell silent. "It's something else. When the demons that died came back to life, you never mentioned Ruby as one of 'em." He tried to keep his voice from sounding accusatory, but she would have had to have heard it. Ruby being back was hard on Dean, and then doubly pressing because of how monstrously devastating it was for Sam.

" _Don't take that tone with me, young man_ ," Meg chided, and though she sounded humorous, Dean could tell she was kind of pissed. But if she'd thought that they were going to entangle themselves in another politicians brawl over the ruling of Hell, she had another thing coming. The last time they'd done that, Sam had died. " _And Ruby, well, you didn't ask specifically, so—_ "

"Are you serious?" Dean demanded, forcing himself to calm down so that the impala wouldn't veer off the road. "Are you _actually_ serious?"

" _I wasn't even around when Ruby and you were chumming it up,_ " Meg said defensively.

Dean scoffed. The demon could play ignorant, but he knew her better than that. "Yeah, right. You probably knew before we did that she was playing us."

" _Well, in my defence, I did want Lucifer to be risen,_ " Meg said nonchalantly. " _You know. I was sort of waiting for that my whole life._ " She paused. " _I never got to thank you for ruining my dreams, by the way_."

"I'm not really cut up on that one," Dean told her bluntly. He stilled and took a moment. There was no harm in asking her, right? If he did, then he would know for sure. If he didn't then he was just relying on Ruby. And when it came down to it, of the two demons he trusted the most, it was Meg who held a higher regard in his heart. "Listen, Meg. About the escapee demons—"

" _No, Brady did not escape from Hell_ ," Meg said dutifully.

"Thanks, for that one," Dean said dryly. "But that's not who I'm talking about. We killed them right after the devils gate was opened, right after I sold my soul for Sam. The Seven Deadly sins?"

" _Wait, what makes you think that they're back_?" Meg asked, and the incredulity of her tone turned Dean's blood cold.

"So they're still dead, then?" Dean guessed, voice hard, jaw set.

" _Yes. Definitely dead._ " She paused. " _Did Ruby tell you that they were alive?_ "

Dean didn't answer, roughly ending the call and throwing his phone onto the passenger's seat. He swung the Impala into the opposing lane and gunned it, foot down hard on the accelerator. He'd been gone for a while, and it would take a while to get back.

Ruby had lied, Ruby had lied.

He picked his phone up again and dialled for Sam, but he just hit voicemail. He screamed in frustration and hit the steering wheel. He tried again, and again, but he didn't get through.

He glared down the road and the impala roared, pummelling the road.

* * *

When she'd handed the phone back to Sam, Ruby's finger had slipped along the side and turned it on silent. It was a neat plan, and Sam wouldn't suspect anything was amiss for at least the first hour. But if she didn't distract him, then in that time he might check it, out of boredom.

Surely Dean knew that she'd been lying now. She was surprised that it hadn't occurred to him earlier.

"How you been, Sam?" She asked, and flashed her teeth as she smiled.

Sam regarded her with the same barely guarded contempt that humans gave to the rodents they caught in their trash. "Peachy."

"You and Dean are a lot tighter," Ruby said, almost begrudgingly. "Last time I saw you, you two were pummelling each other to death."

Sam's eyes flashed dangerously dark and Ruby understood that she'd come to unsafe territory. But if she went back there, perhaps she could remind Sam of why he was doing it, why he was doing it _really_. That power, that power she could _still_ give to him, it thrummed like poison in her own veins. This girls blood had been tainted with a drug so pure and driven that the most pious would fall and the most noble would crack.

"Touchy subject?" Ruby guessed, angling the toes of her feet towards each other as she still sat, tied up. She had planned this out to be freed by now, but she had obviously underestimated the Winchesters ability to hold a grudge. It was ok though, she could adapt. All she needed to do was remind Sam that she had always been there, whether he liked it or not. That she'd been his and he'd been hers and together they were going to ruin and rule the world. "Fair enough. So, I've heard whispers about all the things that happened after my death, but nothing resolute." That was a lie. All the demons in Hell knew every minute detail of what had happened when Lucifer had got up and started walking, but she wanted to hear it from Sam. She wanted to get an opportunity to comfort him.

To be the one there for him, despite everything, once again.

"Lucifer rose, I overtook him, I jumped into Hell, Cas saved me," Sam summarised basically, and Ruby had to admit that it was an admirable skeleton from the years events.

"You went to the cage?" Ruby asked him, quietly, tenderly. "That must have been hard."

Sam's eyes were hard on her, hard and cold and unforgiving. Ruby suddenly realised that if she wanted to comfort him, then it would have to be a shared enemy. It could not be overly useful to paint yourself as sympathetic when _you_ were the root of all the problems.

"And after that?" Ruby asked, but she was slightly too breathless, her voice a touch too strained, and she knew that she had lost. Sam was not compassionate to her as he had once been. Whatever that had been between them was lost. Irrevocably broken. She would not be able to fix this. All those months after she had come back to life had been spent picturing this moment. Sam breaking down into tears and her comforting him, her arms, her hands, her lips, her voice. He would lean into her and she would bleed into him and things would return to how they'd always been.

Perhaps she was a dreamer, but she preferred to think of herself as hopeful.

"You're vile, you're an abomination," Sam told her, and though his words were soft and finally, for the first time since they'd met again, reasonable, they cut her deeply. "You're a _demon,_ Ruby, and you broke the world. You broke the damn world and you forced me to do it."

"I—"

"I spent _years_ hating myself, and then _generations_ making up for all I did," Sam told her, voice building. She wondered how long he'd kept this inside. "And even after I got out of the cage I suffered. So don't you _dare_ ," he gritted his teeth and paused for a moment, as if considering his words, as if filtering them. "Think that there is _any way_ I could _ever_ forgive you for what you did to me. And to Dean. And to everyone on this God Forsaken planet."

"I made you better, Sam," Ruby shook her head, lamenting. "I wish you could see that. I wish you could understand. Lucifer had to rise, and for him to rise, you needed to be the best that you could be."

"No, no, _no_ ," Sam snapped. "Don't you _dare_. You did not make me better, you _damaged_ me. I've passed two of the trials to slam the gates of Hell, had Archangel blood in my veins, been possessed by an angel and reclaimed my soul from the pits of Hell, but I _still_ feel unclean. And that is _your fault_."

"It's not," Ruby shook her head. "And you're wrong. Angels and Demons aren't clean or dirty. Demons blood is not corrupting, its _freeing_."

Sam just shook his head, eyes not leaving her face. "I don't know how you _ever_ considered yourself to remember your humanity. You're _wrong_ , Ruby. Everything about you is _wrong_. Humans don't think like that. A _human_ wouldn't consider what you did to be anything less than _awful_."

Ruby just shook her head. She didn't know how to make him understand, because he was so wrong. He was deluded by grandeur. She had created him to be strong enough to handle Lucifer, strong enough to hold the Morningstar within himself, but he'd jumped into hell. And that had been _his_ choice, not hers.

As if he could read her mind, Sam just stared at her, and huffed a humourless, dead laugh. "You're so selfish, Ruby. You're so damn selfish."

"I don't regret it," Ruby told him, shrugging as if it was just a passing remark. As if de-toxing her blood hadn't almost killed him, as if her destroying the world was something to forget. To forgive. "I'm sorry, but I don't. I can't. I worked _hard_ , to make you what you became. And the only thing I regret is not showing you how strong you could have been if you'd only been a little more driven."

"A little more like you," Sam stated, and Ruby had to wince, because the way he said it sounded like it was the worst thing someone could possibly be.

"I told the demons that Dean was coming," Ruby said desperately. The tides had changed and she needed to pull something out. Something drastic, but she'd played all her cards. "I told them that he's coming and they'll be ready for him. We can steal a car, I'll direct us there. We'll see if we can save him."

Sam faltered, but only for a moment. He pulled her knife out of his jacket, and Ruby stared at it.

"Thing is," Sam stared down at it, and slowly, step by step, his fingers turned around it, and it was held in his hand. "I don't believe you."

"Then it's _his_ funeral," Ruby spat. Sam just shook his head, and he walked forward. Ruby pushed back, so that she was balancing on her toes, her chair dangerously close to slipping over. She could see it happen, her head hitting the ground, Sam standing over her and finishing the deal.

"The demons never came back to life, did they?" Sam asked her quietly.

"Gonna kill me with my own knife?" Ruby demanded, eyes hooked onto the handle. "You gonna kill me all tied up? How's that fair?"

" _Did they_?" Sam reiterated, fingers white around the handle. It was his left hand, his least preferred hand, but Ruby had no hesitations in knowing that he would be able to kill her without hesitation.

"What _happened_ to you, Sam?" Ruby demanded, staring up at him. "The girl I'm possessing, she could be alive, couldn't she? You never asked. You don't know. I might be a demon, but you have to _respect_ me. I came back to life for you." Her voice dropped and broke. She hadn't cried, not since she'd been human, but that feeling, that monstrous feeling of a wave building and building, and all you could do was press against it, hands splayed against the oncoming storm, was forming behind her eyes now. "What _happened to you_?"

Sam stared down at her unmoved. " _You_ did, you black eyed bitch."

Ruby didn't even have time to scream before the knife was pushed through her ribs. As she died, as her skeleton flickered orange and yellow through to her skin, she saw Sam close his eyes. His face was a picture of pain, and his mouth cinched in hatred. Not at her, but at what he was doing.

Sam Winchester was broken, but he was not lost.

* * *

Dean came back to see Sam standing off in the middle of the field opposite the gas station, gazing at a body that was burning under a white sheet. It lit the dying grass in brilliant hues, the stars framing his brothers bowed head, his hunched shoulders, his crossed arms.

Dean parked the car and made his way out to Sam, reached him, making sure that their shoulders touched, making sure that Sam knew he was there.

Sam turned into Dean and Dean hugged his little brother. Away from the pain at Ruby, away from the coarseness of all they'd been through thrown back in their faces. The fire was hot and its temperature was only climbing, but neither brother moved out of the way. Two boys clutched to each other, wishing the world away and wanting the night to never end.

The heat from the flames was nearly unbearable now, but neither walked away. They detangled and stood so that they faced the burning corpse. It seemed that every action they committed demanded penance, demanded pain.

And this was no exception.


	18. The Crazies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean are called to a town where a deadly virus is threatening.

It was the third body they'd burnt that week, and Sebastian though that he had a right to be concerned. The third body in so little days wouldn't go unnoticed by the town, and sooner or later someone was going to see the fires in the middle of the fields and then put the mysterious disappearances, the newcomers and the midnight bonfires together in a sickening lurch of understanding.

And Seb didn't want to be around when the shit hit the fan.

But neither did he want to leave. Angelika, the leader of the enterprise, had put up a death penalty for even _considering_ leaving. But that was just a walk in the park compared to what threatened if they went to Crowley with what they were doing. Angelika had no regard for human life and hated the people of the world to a chilling degree, but it had nothing on her seething hatred for the king of hell.

He'd uprooted her queen after all.

Abaddon had lost many followers in the fight to reclaim Hell after she'd remained topside, her demons had been utterly loyal, and those who weren't felt the brunt. She had had no patience for those playing to their demonic wiles. She trusted in devotion only, and was harsh and abrupt with punishment, and now she was dead.

While the Winchesters were their obvious enemy, and they'd have no trouble and lose no sleep over ripping their entrails out through their throats, they weren't the real antagonist. For surely they never would have had the power to kill their queen in the first place if it hadn't been for the King of Hell directing the humans like the puppets they were.

Angelika understood this, and she had made it their business to understand it like that as well.

"Angelika," Sebastian started, looking to their leader, who's black eyes reflected the fire with a quiet gravity. "Three bodies is too much. If the townspeople suspect that _we_ are the ones—"

"Sebastian, quiet," Harry hissed, staring down the line of sure, obedient demons, who's heads were bowed as they stared at the rising flames.

Angelika looked across, bored. She tilted her head and pursed her lips. "Why do you think that the townspeople will be a problem for us, Demon?"

She said the word demon like she was above them, like she was a fairer being. That was far from true. Before the civil war, she'd been just another black eyed bitch running around and causing trouble, panic, glee like the rest of them. But now she was all high and mighty, because one time Abaddon entrusted her with this one important mission.

And now that she was back to life, she felt like she still had to fulfil it. While being as annoying as possible.

Sebastian was sure that he couldn't be the only one who hated the bitch's attitude, but the others were too scared to do anything. Too scared and, admittedly, too enraptured. She was a very impressive demon. And before she'd been killed, she had been given a very enivable job.

"I don't," Sebastian shook his head and then smirked a little, imagining the people of the town trying to fight back against them. His face dropped and he looked across the fire to his First with gravity. "But I do worry about who they'll tell."

"We can deal with hunters," she scoffed, and at her goading, like blind sheep, the demons that surrounded them huffed out their own forced laughter. Sebastian didn't feel like laughing, and it wasn't just hunters in general that he was concerned about.

"You know who I mean," Sebastian's voice was low, urgent. "They've already killed Ruby. We haven't heard from her in weeks."

"Ruby was a sadistic bitch who had it coming," Angelika waved away his concern. "And they had a personal bone to pick with her. We have not been dead that long, demon—"

"Sebastian," he snapped, and immediately wished that he hadn't.

She tilted her head in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"My name," he clarified, his voice not nearly as strong as it had been before. "Is Sebastian. Not demon. Or thing. In fact," he turned his attention to the larger group, all of whom watched him as if to beg for his tongue to hold. "We _all_ have names. We could have done anything after we came back. But we chose to follow _you_."

He was toeing the line, and he knew it. Her eyes flicked over back to black, but he refused to flinch. "And is there anything else about me that you would like changed?"

He'd gone too far, he knew. He had to give the impression of stepping back now, but still press to his advantage. They needed to move, choose a new town, hunker down and see if it would work this time. "Of course not. Your crucible is imperative in fulfilling the Queen's last requests, but if we are dead, if _they_ —" he stressed the word so all knew he was talking about, and the demons shifted in response "—find us and kill us, all of this would have been for nothing."

Angelika let the silence extend, and when her eyes flicked back to the ochre, earthy brown of her meat suit. She gazed at Sebastian oddly. Without the hatred and harshness he'd come to associate with her, but with a probing curiosity.

"You're right, Sebastian," she said finally, crossing her arms. She looked away from him and to the fire. "If it is one thing we must ensure, it is that we complete Abaddon's orders, no matter what state the Knight be in. Laura is overseeing one more human tonight. If she is unsuccessful," Angelika's lips tightened. "Then we must move on."

Sebastian restrained a heaving breath of relief, but he couldn't hide the small smile as he turned back to the burning pyre.

* * *

Half the reason that Sebastian and the others had chosen the town that they were in was because there was an old, condemned building reasonably close to the centre of town, and a church nearby where demons who were stronger than the usual breed could break in and steal the ingredients they needed.

They all gathered, breathless, in the basement of this house now. Through the gloom, Sebastian could make out Harry standing beside Angelika, looking at their boss adoringly, and then Becka across the room, who had her finger poised indecisively over the light switch.

Sebastian watched as Angelika gave the young demon a short nod, and Becka flicked the lights on.

Laura was crouched over a dying corpse. There was no other way to put it, really. Witchcraft had sustained the humans life long before it should have collapsed, but unless her experiments worked, then the body would give out, the naked organs would stop pumping blood and another human would die.

Another kink in the trail.

Laura was bent over it like a wolf mother protecting its den. Her eyes glowed black and hazy in the suddenly light room, and blood leaked from the corner of her lip like she had been drinking the blood of the dying man while she had been working on him.

"Status report?" Angelika barked, and some of the craziness in Laura's eyes died.

She blinked and her eyes were cerulean blue again. "If he wakes up in the next few minutes, then..." she just grinned, and Sebastian felt a spike of excitement ignite inside his stomach. Demons were not ones for hoping, but of all the things that had happened in his life, he wanted this the most. He imagined the blood, and the death, and the devastation, and the look on Crowley's face when they saw Abaddon's symbol painted over the dead, and he was close to smiling.

He could feel the heat in the room, the anticipation. Even Angelika had dropped her shoulders and was peering towards the corpse, eyes hungry with wanting.

The man, who had once been a full, whole church goer, lay now with his eyes staring blankly upwards and his heart slowing with every forced breath. Laura had sewn him up again after she'd been digging around his insides, her red handprints littering his bare chest. Running surgically straight along the skin were lines of black darn, sewn through his skin with a bloody needle. He looked like a grotesque Frankenstein's monster.

Sebastian's mouth cinched disappointedly when he saw the breathing drop to nothing. The man looked very dead.

Laura hissed with frustration, blood stained hands tightened fists. "That one should have _worked_."

Angelika's gaze was dark when it met the underling's. "Well it _didn't_."

"I—"

"Guys," Sebastian's eyes widened as he watched the corpse. The corpse that had begun to shift. They'd had it all wrong, they'd thought that the virus was an infection, that the body carried it within them and then altered accordingly. But it wasn't.

Croatoan was a parasite. And the body didn't need to be alive.

All the demons held their breaths as the man's eyes flashed open and alive.

Sebastian was too enraptured by the man's slow awakening that he didn't notice Becka stealing out the back of the room and pulling out a phone. She had been a new addition to the group, but she'd been convincing enough to join them. All wide grins and pop culture references, a vendetta against Crowley and a head of bushy brown hair.

"Hey, Buddy," she whispered into the phone when she knew that she was out of earshot. "Remember me?"

She held the phone against her ear but didn't listen to the man's reply.

"Nice, nice," she said conversationally. But then her voice drew grave. "Look, we've got a situation."

More mumbles that she couldn't be bothered listening to.

"It's Croatoan," Meg Masters informed Sam Winchester, with a finality to her tone that couldn't be ignored. "And it's bad, Sam." She turned her head back to the basement, where she could hear laughter and the sickening sound of someone's arm breaking. She wondered who's it was, then wondered how many of their vessels were still alive, and then she didn't quite want to think about anything. It had been a while since she'd been around demons, and Meg had forgotten how vile they were. "Really bad."

* * *

Meg was waiting for them when they stowed the impala in the forests surrounding the town. Hunters Valley was just off the border of Kansas, and hadn't been much of a drive, and the brothers arrived early the next morning. Dean eased onto the break when Meg gestured for them to follow her into an area of shrubbery. Dean drove until he counted upon the fact that no one would be able to follow him in to find their car.

"This is going to be terrible," Sam commented blearily. His brother hadn't been in the best of sorts in the week or so following Ruby's death, and Dean wasn't going to hold it against him. Ruby had been a major bump in the road, and her timing had been so unexpected... the fact that his brother was vertical at all was a miracle in itself.

"Aw, maybe not," Dean said light-heartedly. He pulled the handbrake up and glanced over to Sam. "Meg could have been joking. They might have been luring us here to throw a massive surprise party."

Despite everything, Sam flashed a smile. "You think?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Definitely. Cas would have given Hannah cake duty and Sarah might even make an appearance."

"Celebrity," Sam commented, and Dean hesitated before answering. Because Sam was trying _so_ hard, and he thought that Dean was joking around for his own peace of mind. Everything was so terrible. They hadn't taken a proper case since meeting with Charlie and Dorothy in New York, and the only news that they'd gotten from the Hunting world had been Krissy when she'd called them, asking for their opinion on a girl named 'Claire Novak' who seemed to have a thing about angels and said that she knew them.

Meg was waiting impatiently at the front of the car, arms crossed over her chest and jaw jutted slightly in her frustration.

Sam pushed his door open first and walked up to Meg, flashing her a Sam Winchester patented fake smile. "Hey, Meg. Thanks for the call."

"Thanks for picking up," Meg countered.

Dean ignored her and Sam's greeting and looked around. The trees were tall, but sparse, and through the leaves of the timid canopy he could see the bluish tinge of the world as the sun started to rise. It was still in a grey haze, but that would have all burnt off by the later morning. Clouds puffed along the tip of the horizon, unthreatening and white, and beneath his feet the ground was damp and rich, the soil thick with dead and dying leaves. It felt like the world was waking up, like the world was healing itself.

When Dean took a deep breath, letting the air rush into his lungs, it tasted fresh. Like a kiss from someone you adore, like waves at the beach lapping at your toes on the first good days of summer.

"You with us, Dean?" Meg asked, and Dean looked nonchalantly at her, and then at Sam, who was looking at him questioningly as well.

"Totally," Dean said. "Thought I'd tune into the interesting stuff, though."

Meg huffed and pushed her hands onto her waist. "I'm wasted on you two, honestly."

"Because you're so sassy?" Sam guessed, that stupid smile he got whenever he told a joke playing at the tips of his lips.

"No one says 'sassy' anymore, Samantha," Dean cut across, rolling his eyes.

"Don't they? Better note that one down," Meg said. "It's like when I came back to earth last time and learnt no one was saying 'Groovy'."

"People still say groovy," Dean rebuffed.

Now it was Sam's turn to roll his eyes. "No, they don't."

Meg shuddered. "Pop culture." She hesitated and both boys felt the climate drop. She played at her fingers absently and looked neither of them in the eyes. "So, uh, is..." She looked angry at herself. "Is Cas going to be paying us a visit?"

"Maybe," Sam said, his voice a little lower, a little kinder than Dean's would have been. "It's hard to get into contact with Heaven, and you can never be sure if praying gets through."

Meg nodded like it was the answer she was expecting, but far from the answer she was hoping for. Not for the first time Dean wondered at their relationship. An angel and a Demon was even more of an abomination than a human and a demon, but neither of them could really claim to being the most elementary examples of their races. Cas was far from the loyal, obedient dog that the rest of the angels that they met were, and Meg's mere presence now was proof enough that she was far from the typical demon.

It seemed that everyone the Winchester brothers met, they changed. Not in a bad way, just in a different way. Meg was kinder, but she was ostracised. A victim of causes. It could hardly be argued that Cas was better off now than he was, but he was free. He had free thought.

"So," Meg finally said. She adopted her smirk back, and it was like she'd never been thinking of Cas at all. "Are we ready? Got your balls screwed on?"

"Nice and tight," Dean answered for her with a grin. He ignored Sam's eye roll and the two of them headed to the back of the impala. He pulled out his gun, handed Sam a sawed off and loaded his pockets and the pockets of his jacket with salt bullets. Sam stuffed the rest of the rock salt into his belt, and the casings into his breast pocket.

They checked themselves one more time; holy water, markers for devils traps, guns, artillery, iron knives and bullets, Ruby's knife, angel blades and a pair of glasses in case they needed to fend off hell hounds like the last time they'd met with Meg in an abandoned town.

The memory left a bitter taste on Dean's tongue, but he ignored it and slammed the boot of the impala down.

Meg regarded both the brothers with a small smile.

"What?" Sam asked, a little self conscious.

"Oh, nothing," Meg said, still smiling. "It's just, those demons. They won't know what hit them."

Dean shared a glance with Sam and then, eyebrow raised, turned back to the she-demon. "Uh, thanks?"

"No problem," Meg shrugged easily. "Now, better lock the windows. We got a band of Crazies to catch."

* * *

"How many Croat's," Dean realised that he'd used the word that 2014 Dean had used when he'd gone into the future, but it was too late to change, so he just pressed on. "Are there?" He finished lamely.

If Meg noticed his hesitation, she didn't say anything. "Not sure. One definitely. Probably more by now."

"That's all you know?" Sam asked from behind them, bringing up the rear and, in Dean's opinion, sounding a little precious. "What were you doing after you called us?"

"Spying and hiding," Meg answered, sniffing a little, miffed. "They think I'm a recently resurged Abaddon loyalist named Becka."

"That'd be an interesting Twitter profile, that's for sure," Dean muttered, and received a huff of irritation from his brother and a genuine laugh from their demonic companion.

"So who are the players?" Sam asked, coming up so that he was walking beside Meg. Dean saw the first hints of civilisation as they passed an old, decrepit tree house that probably hadn't been touched in at least a decade. He was sure that it was just some older generation who'd left town in search of bigger and better things, but it did nothing to help the spooky feel of Hunters Valley. He felt like someone was watching him, like the birds in the trees were demons in disguise. Like at any moment an infected would jump out and taint his blood.

For the first time since he'd gotten the call, Dean realised that of him, Meg and Sam, he was the only one who was susceptible to the virus. He stowed the knowledge close to his heart, and hoped that it would never come of use.

"Angelika," Meg answered easily. "Queen B, and had been assigned this before, when Abaddon was still queening around and you..." She twisted her mouth into something resembling a smile. "Well, you had one less Death to your tally."

Sam refused to let her get a rise out of him. "Who else?"

"Laura is the on-site surgeon," Meg counted off her fingers. "She's the one who stuck her hands in the guts of this one guy, and infected him with the parasite."

"So she's on our 'to kill' list?" Dean assumed, and Meg nodded quickly.

"Definitely," Meg said. "Shouldn't be too hard. She's all manner of crap at fighting. The only reason Angelika picked her up was because she'd been one of Alastair's underlings before the whole Hell Revival situation, and had picked up a thing or two about Croatoan and about cutting people up."

"How did they manage to keep the people alive for the surgery?" Sam asked, flabbergasted.

Meg winced and turned to look at him. "You really want to know, Sunshine?"

Sam backtracked and considered her question. "Probably not. Good call."

"Who else?" Dean pressed, hoping that the list would be small enough that the demonic infestation wouldn't override the absolute necessity of finishing the Croats.

"Sebastian, a bit of an idiot and he's going to get himself killed, but Angelika likes him," Meg continued. Through the trees, Dean was sure he could make out the starched weatherboards of one of the outreaching houses. "And then there are two more who're more likely to dance the tango than have a comprehensive personal thought."

"Lovely," Sam grimaced. "Six demons and a town full of Croats."

Meg beamed. "Don't say I don't do anything for you."

* * *

"Hey! You! Don't move!"

Dean stared ahead, eyes wide as Sam, who had picked up the pace at the last second, suddenly turned to the source of the noise, putting his arms up quickly.

Dean pushed to move forward but Meg forced him back, tugging his arm so that he crouched down and out of the way at her side.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean demanded, pushing to get up again and feeling the brunt of her demonic strength. "We gotta get Sam!"

"Sam's _fine_ ," she hissed, tugging him even further down so that they were on their stomachs. Dean forced his head up and met his brothers fearful eyes. Sam was looking back to where he and Meg were lying, and with the leaves in his ears, Dean couldn't hear what the person was saying.

Sam stood alone, hands still over his head as the man talked down to him. Sam seemed to placate him though, pulling out an old FBI badge and throwing it up to the window that he was talking to.

Dean heard Meg chuckle next to him. "Clever boy." And it almost sounded like a prayer.

"If something happens to him, I _swear_ —"

"You'll fry me, cook me, serve me to my own dogs?" Meg rattled off, her voice dry and bored. Dean had his eyes cast to Sam, and now that the movement had stopped, he was beginning to be able to hear what the two men were saying.

"Shut up," he warned Meg, and he felt her shuffle indignantly, but not say another word.

"...somethin' weird goin' on in town," the man said. Dean could make it out clearly now. Perhaps an older man, late 40's or early 50's, with a strong accent.

"I know," Sam said soothingly. Dean couldn't see properly, but he was convinced that Sam was pulling out the puppy dog eyes. "That's why the Bureau sent me."

"How'd the FBI know 'bout this one?" the man demanded. Dean flinched as Sam took half a step back, but despite every instinct in his body screaming at him to run and cover his brother, he stayed where he was. Meg's hand was still tight around his wrist, but other than the fact that he'd very much like to keep his shoulder from being dislocated, he knew that if they were all going to get out of their in one piece, they needed to tread carefully. "All the phone lines're down."

People. Zombies. Croats.

Dean tightened his jaw and wished he could shoot or punch something. Great.

"They must have got through before they did, sir," Sam said, shrugging helplessly. Dean felt a surge of protective instinct wash over him as he saw how guarded Sam's posture was. His little brothers hands never strayed far from where his gun was tucked in the waist of his jeans. But still, Dean stayed. Still, Meg held him in place.

"People doin' strange things in town," the man said, is voice in that same distrustful tone. "How do I know you ain't one of 'em?"

"One of who?" Sam asked carefully. With every minute he became more and more relaxed. Dean hoped that if a gun had been poised at the window, that at least now his finger was off the trigger. Then if it came to it, it would come to whoever was the fastest draw. And Sammy had been born into a world where kids handled guns and knives and salt; a world that prepared him for anything. Not in the least gun slinging red necks.

"The demons, 'course," the man's voice floated down incredulous. "That's why you're here, right?" Dean would have been an idiot to hear the warning tone in the man's voice. He was scared, backed into a corner, and his home was overrun by zombies. Killing Sam would have been no skin off of his nose if it meant protecting him and whatever family he might have stored in his home. But if Sam admitted that he did know the demons, he'd have to pretend that there was no one else out there. The man would recognise Meg as Becka if they tried to bring her with them and he'd kill them all on principle.

"I know them," Sam said, and his voice sounded a little broken. Dean swallowed the lump that was forming at the back of his throat and wished, not for the first time, that they could go back to when all demons were bad and he'd have no trouble cutting through Meg's throat. But the world had never been black and white. There had always been shades of grey, even when all demons had been out to get them. If he'd never accepted that, then he'd been a fool. "The bureau knows about them. They sent me because I'm somewhat of a specialist in my field."

"Where you come from, boy?"

"Poughkeepsie," Sam answered clearly. Dean knew that the answer wasn't for the old man. He knew that Sam, now, was speaking directly to him.

"Like Hell," Dean muttered angrily. Meg looked at him curiously, so he explained. "Code word. Means drop everything and run."

"Ah," Meg said, and then her face screwed up in a similar anger. "Yeah, like Hell."

Dean couldn't help the faint, ghost of a smile.

"So, what do we do?" Meg asked, looking to Dean as if he had the answers. Dean watched as the man invited Sam into his house. Sam gave a quick look out to where they'd been, met Dean's eyes and gave him a meaningful look. One that seemed to just say 'Poughkeepsie' all over again. Dean gave a deft, swift shake of his head.

Sam, resigned, turned and walked up the steps. The man wasn't interested in their patch of land when he walked out to see Sam in, but Dean and Meg huddled down immediately all the same. They were far back enough and within the bracken and roots that they wouldn't have been seen unless they were being directly looked for.

Both Sam and the man disappeared, faint conversation sounding as they walked together to the door. Dean heard a bug screen door slam shut, and then a much heavier, wooden one. Silence spilled out over the forest, and Dean rolled off away from Meg, trying not to look at the house too much. Trying to figure out how to save the town without his brother.

"We can do it," Meg told him, sitting up and running her fingers through her hair absently, picking the leaves out and letting them spread about on the ground between them. "He'll be fine." She stood and looked down at him unblinking, waiting for him to join her. "If we can take out the demons, then there won't be anything protecting the Croats."

"Yeah," Dean said, pushing away her hand to help him up and getting to his feet. He dusted the dirt off his jeans and ruffled his hair to bring out the twigs and undergrowth. "Would have been easier with Sam."

"Would have been easier with _Cas_ ," Meg pointed out. "But sometimes you just gotta make do with the crappy ass rainbow life vomits up for you."

"Who was that, Edgar Ellen Poe?" Dean guessed, grinning. Meg shoved him and he stumbled sideways for her benefit.

"Let's go," Meg said finally. "We know Boo Radley's got a gun pointed in that direction, so I say we try the opposite side."

"Hug the house," Dean suggested. "They won't be able to see us from the windows."

"Right on," Meg grinned, and her eyes flickered to black. Dean wondered if she'd done that to remind him that she was a demon, or to remind herself.

* * *

"Nice house you got here," Sam complimented, looking at the neat wooden shafts made into the walls, and the wide bookshelf housing more than just books. There were a collection of souvenirs and other pretty things, like shot glasses and antique guns. There was no order from what Sam could see, just a series of oddly placed trinkets and belongings. The fireplace and grill was cold, and an old leather couch made up the centre of the room. Beneath Sam's feet was an old shaggy rug that looked grimy enough to oil a car.

"Thanks," the man grunted in reply. He looked at Sam shrewdly. "So, I never did catch your name, agent."

"Nor yours," Sam said, equally cool. He wasn't giving up any suspicions on the man yet.

He tilted his head, but then gave a toothless grin. "Samuel Clark, at your service."

Sam went into a cold panic. He really should have said his name first, because if he said his now, then it would look like he was just copying the man in front of him. "I...uh...my name's," he grabbed the man's hand. "D—Dean." He winced inwardly and gave Samuel a firm handshake. "Dean Winchester."

"Like the—?"

"Like the gun maker, yeah," Sam affirmed, hoping the grin he adopted was wry and nonchalant, and not the pinched, over expressive one he was more likely to be making.

"Uh, well, I s'pose," he scratched his chin and narrowed his eyes. "I meant like that murderin' brother who killed all those people a few years back."

Sam caught his expression before it could kick over into something he might not be able to prove back."Oh, yeah. Didn't they both die?"

"And the younger brother shared my name, ha!" His smile and tone, for all intents and purposes, _seemed_ to be real, but Sam didn't know where sharing your name with a convicted killer came on the list of 'things that make people happy'.

Sam gave a dry chuckle back. "Yeah."

"So," Samuel pulled out a chair and sat so that he faced the couch, gesturing for Sammy to sit down. "How're we gonna save my town?"

* * *

Meg led Dean to the house opposite the large, deserted mansion that she and the other demons had been using as a hide out.  The house was deserted, and, on their way through the town, they'd found that the streets were quiet, empty. There was no accompaniment to their soft words and feet on pavement. Not even bird song, not even the rustling of leaves. It felt like Hunters Valley had been captured inside another world and held there, still and unmoving.

Or, to Dean, it felt like the world was just waiting. The balance of the town strayed on the edge of a knife. The Croats vs. Dean, Meg, Sam and the creepy guy with the gun. Dean hoped that the townspeople had gotten together and were hiding out somewhere secure, but he knew that it was likely to opposite. Croats died on their own reasonably quickly after infection, but Dean needed to make sure that they were all down, that there was no chance of them spreading to other cities.

But now, watching the house, he and Meg just waited.

"What I don't get," Dean said, looking over to Meg, who was resting her head on her hands, looking out to the house. He had his feet propped up on the couch and a pillow supporting the small of his back. "Is why they chose a small town. Wouldn't it make more sense to go for the city?"

Meg looked over and gave one of her smiles. "It would."

"So, you convinced them off?" Dean guessed and saw Meg nod, pleased with herself.

"Small towns have places to burn bodies," Meg explained, sitting around so that she was facing Dean nearly completely. "And I carped on about havin' a 'test site' before we went onto the real thing, just to make sure that if we _did_ get the Croatoan virus right, we would know for sure before we delivered it to New York." She screwed up her face in distaste. "Never thought they'd actually _succeed_ though."

"So, basically, a load of crap," Dean summarised for her, and she nodded, smirking.

"Angelika thinks that she's the most powerful demon out there because of her 'connections' before she died," Meg gave a short, humourless huff of laughter. "But I served Lucifer and died for the Winchesters and an Angel. Not many other demons can say that, huh?"

"I don't think any demon ever has, or ever will," Dean admitted, and felt something odd stirring in his stomach. Meg, of all people, was the oldest person they knew. Out of all of it, out of Missouri and Jody and Garth and Charlie and Krissy, it was Meg who they met, all the way back when.

They'd hardly known each other on the best of terms, but that didn't stop the disquiet in Dean's mind. Sometimes you had to find something from behind you that reminded you of when times were good, no matter how painful, and just hold on for dear life. Meg had kidnapped their Dad, possessed Sam, shot Dean and her hell hounds had killed Jo and Ellen, but she was all that they had.

Dean smiled, without vigour, to himself in figuring that of course, out of _everyone_ , he should have seen that it would be Meg to survive. Desperate, tricky Meg. An anomaly. A demon with a heart of gold.

"What about you?" Dean started the conversation up again, watching Meg's back. "Why didn't they recognise you? I thought you were supposed to be a big deal."

"Sure am," Meg agreed, eyes still fixed on the house. Her usual cockiness was a little deflated with her distraction, but it managed to grate on Dean's nerves anyway. Oldest acquaintance, maybe, but it didn't stop her being a massive asshole most of the time. "But I learnt a few things when I was dead. And then after, while I was on my Indiana Jones quest to kill the King and claim the crown."

"You know," Dean said hesitantly. "You kill Crowley, doesn't immediately mean you're gonna be queen."

Meg snorted. "I know. That's why I've been chippin' away. What do you think I've been doin'  all this time? Sittin' around, waiting for you to call about the freakin' Seven Deadly Sins or some crap? No." Meg shifted again, so that Dean could see her face. "I've been makin' friends, makin' it up to enemies, playing the House of Cards." Meg's eyes grew dark, and if she'd let them, Dean was sure her eyes would have flickered over to black. "I don't just want to kill Crowley, I want to _destroy_ him. I want to rip the ground from underneath him and stab him as he's floundering. I _despise_ him with every _atom_ of my body. I want to squeeze his neck until blood flows out between my fingers. I want to turn every single demon he thinks is loyal against him. I want to train his Hell Hound to respond to _me_."

Dean watched her, a little in awe. She certainly had the 'holding a grudge' thing down.

Meg's smile was cold. "I've spent _years_ planning my climb, my Kill Bill moment, and I'm not gonna stuff it up. I'm takin' my time, because everything has to be perfect." She shook her head and Dean saw that there were still bits of leaf and forest stuck to the curls of her head. "I'm not gonna be stupid. I'm gonna do more than burn his whole damn world down. I'm gonna _break_ him and hear as he _screams_."

"Ok," Dean said, more than slightly taken aback. "I think we should probably cool it."

"Why?" Meg pouted, back to her irritating, but blessedly simply annoying, self. "Ranting about Crowley's imminent demise is my favourite thing to do!"

Dean shook his head to hide his smile. "Watch the damn house, Meg."

" _Watch the damn house, Meg_ ," she mimicked, although turning back to the window per his request. "Honestly, your voice is so annoying. Anybody ever tell you that?"

"Sam," Dean answered truthfully. "All the time."

Dean sat back and allowed himself to worry about his little brother. He hoped that Sam was keeping his head about him, that he was learning more about the man than the man was learning about him. He hoped that Sam was devising a plan, because as of now, his and Meg's hadn't even graduated from the title page.

He hoped that Sam was ok.

* * *

"Six demons, a demonic virus that can't be cured and a town full o' Crazies," Samuel recapped with a tight jaw and disbelief in his eyes. "Dean, you can't really—"

"I know that this is unbelievable," Sam repeated, for perhaps the fifth time in the past hour. "Trust me, I know. But we need your help. You and anyone still alive."

"How many do you think are dead?" Samuel's voice held strong to the end, where it broke, and Sam felt his heart clench with it.

"Honestly?" Sam said, gaze clear. "If the virus was released when we suspect it was, then 70, maybe 80% of the population."

Samuel took a harsh breath. He didn't say anything, but he seemed to be going into shock.

Sam let him have his moment and absently looked out the window. His stomach flew to his throat when he saw someone, a figure, out there.

"Samuel," he hissed, pulling his gun from the back of his jeans and nodding to the window. "There's someone there."

Samuel's eyes flashed with clarity and understanding. As if Sam's new friend had given enough meaning to his life for him to push through at least today.

Samuel picked up his rifle and moved to the window, his face shrewd and hands careful. He pointed the gun down at the newcomer. "Hey! You! Name!"

'Name!' was new, but Sam supposed it was a question determining the persons mental state of mind. Croatoans were notoriously crafty when it came to getting what they want, but the more they transgressed, the less capable they were of human emotions, response and speech.

There was no answer, and Samuel barked his order again. He flashed a look back at Sam as if to ask 'should I shoot him?' and Sam carefully made his way to the window. As soon as he saw who it was, he pushed the rifle instinctively out of Samuel's hands. The old man looked at him with confusion, but Sam was too busy grinning, eyes meeting the piercing blue gaze of Castiel.

"Who's that?" Samuel demanded. He narrowed his eyes. "Buddy of yours?"

"Yeah, actually," Sam waved for Cas to come up the stairs. The angel, comprehending, followed Sam's orders and made for the front veranda. "He's my..." Sam hoped his pause for racking his brain went unnoticed. "Partner. Partner from the FBI. From my special demon division."

Samuel breathed out a breath of relief. "So you and him, you'll go in and sort this mess out."

Cas's footsteps echoed within the house and Sam smiled a little. "Something like that."

He went to get the door for Cas first, wondering how he would be able to tell Castiel that he'd told Samuel that he was his brother's name. He opened the door to Cas's smiling face, and pulled the angel into a hug before greetings could be exchanged.

"I told the guy that my name's Dean," Sam whispered into Cas's ear.

"Why?" Cas asked in a low, rumbling voice.

"Explain later," Sam lied. He had no intention of telling anyone that he'd reached for a name because he was worried about having two Sam's in the same place because he was concerned that the old dude might have an issue with coincidence. Dean would just laugh at him, and he had no doubt that Meg would join in.

They pulled apart and Sam pulled Cas into the house.

"Agent Castiel," Cas smartly introduced himself, nodding at Sam's FBI badge that he'd left peeking out the top of his pocket to placate Samuel. Cas was more intuitive than he seemed, and Sam was left again feeling ashamed that he'd underestimated him. "If you'll excuse us, me and my Partner, Dean, have a few things we need to catch up on."

"No, by all means," Samuel allowed, a little flustered under Cas's cool, unhurried exterior, and nearly ran into the other room across the hall.

As soon as he was gone, Cas turned to Sam, his face falling from professional to grave. "I received your brothers prayer, and I came as soon as I could. What has happened? Where are he and Meg?"

"Well first things first," Sam said grimly. "Things are pretty shitty."

"Is that your official report?" Cas asked mildly, and Sam cracked a grin.

"Sure," he agreed. "Ok, so, we arrived, we separated, I told Dean to get the hell out of town, he didn't listen so now I suspect that he and Meg are in the town alone."

Cas paled slightly at the last bit, but he didn't seem any weaker because of it. "Keep going."

"Six demons, one higher and one surgically brilliant enough to resurrect the Croatoan virus," Sam continued, voice growing lower and lower as the news became bleaker. "And a town full of, or at least nearly full of, cut throat Croats."

Cas nodded, looking off into nothing as he processed all that he'd learned. "If I'd known that it was so bad, I would have brought more angels."

"I know, but we don't have time," Sam said quickly. "If the demons leave with the Virus and infect a City, we're done. All of this is done. Everything we worked towards, all in the name of Abaddon."

"The martyr," Cas understood.

"The symbol," Sam affirmed. He fidgeted for a moment before looking worriedly at Cas. "You can... are you able to see who is and who isn't infected with the parasite?"

Cas nodded, the sides of his mouth perking into an almost smile at Sam's obvious relief. "Finally, some good news, right?"

"Right." Sam thought about Meg, about how she did things, and about Dean. They'd employ the same thing that they used when they hunted down Dick Roman. Cut off the head and the body will flounder. If they killed the demons, then the Croats would just run around each other until they died. "Oh, and Cas, one more question." Cas nodded at him to proceed. "I don't know if you can tell, but..." he felt awkward asking about this. He didn't want Cas to think that he thought of his tainting as a blessing, but if it saved him now... "Does the... does what Azazel do to me still... still count?"

Cas gazed at him, a mighty barn owl with a fond spot for the shy mice that it was supposed to be hunting. "Unfortunately, or rather, fortunately, Sariel's influence could not fully remove the stain that Azazel left." Cas gazed at Sam, half pitying, half kind. "Your body has thrived off that drop of blood since your birth. Your atoms are carved out of it, your molecules bonded together through it. It is as much a part of you as your blood and your skin."

Sam nodded, an resisted the urge to rip himself open and scrub himself clean. He ignored that old wound and turned back to the matter on hand. Meg and Dean and the whole mess she'd brought them into.

Sam knew that he and Cas needed to get out there and help them. There was only one small hitch in his plan, and that was that he knew neither where the demons were, nor where Meg and Dean had hid themselves.

"Say your farewells to the man who threatened me with a gun," Cas told Sam as if reading his thoughts. "We have much to do."

* * *

"I'm comin'," Samuel announced when he heard their plan. He hitched his rifle up to his waist and looked at them like he dared them to try him. "Whether you like it or not, Pretty Boy, this is my town, and I ain't just gonna sit around."

Sam wanted to scream in frustration, but Samuel had a point. Sam knew that if was in his position, he too would want to do as much as he could. Hideaway or not, Samuel would have had friends in the town that Meg's friends had ruined, and he deserved as much as them to have a fighting chance.

"Fine," Sam said finally, irritatedly. He looked back at Cas and realised that there needed to be some explanation for why Cas could tell who was infected and they could not. "Uh... we didn't want to tell you, because it'd freak you out, but Cas is a—"

"S—Dean?" Cas asked, slightly pressingly, but Sam looked across at him reassuringly.

"He's a psychic," Sam said finally, looking Samuel steadily in the eye to detract from suspicion.

Samuel scoffed. "You 'spect me to believe that? Psychics don't exist, and if they did, they'd be just as evil as the demons who've taken over the town."

Sam tried not to feel the hurt intended for Cas, but the angel wouldn't feel it, and of those standing there in that room, he was the only one who fit the title 'Psychic'. But that had been a long time ago, a lifetime, and Sam had made peace with the demon blood that forced him to grow into something grotesque and unholy.

Sort of.

"I can assure you that you're wrong," Sam finally said evenly. Samuel looked like he was going to speak, but Sam cut him off. "Either you  come with us and shut the hell up, or stay here and let us take care of the town for you." Sam hoped that the old man would choose the second option, and inwardly chided himself for not making it sound a little more appealing.

Samuel backed down and nodded. "Kay." He looked at Cas, eyes glowering with an unfamiliar intensity. "But I don' have to like it."

"Perfectly understandable," Cas told him, and though it was meant to be Cas just playing his role, his nonchalance cut Sam. It was Perfectly Understandable that people would not treat someone with the same respect because they had powers out of their control? _That_ was somehow 'Perfectly Understandable'?

Sam shook it off and forced himself not to dwell on it. "Ok, Cas, Samuel, I say we go into town and find the survivors. If we can get them to relative safety, then we'll be able to sort out who is and who isn't infected, and..." Sam grimaced. " _Cleanse_ the town."

"Mow 'em all down?" Samuel asked, raising his eyebrow as if to ask Sam to cast him a little slack. He clutched at his rifle and Sam could do no more than offer a slight nod.

"This is not going to be enjoyable," Cas foretold gloomily, and Sam, picking his gun up and running his hand over its sides as if to reassure himself that it was still there, agreed. Croats looked like humans, spoke like humans, a few hours ago, _were_ humans. But there was no cure, and to save the body, sometimes you needed to—

"Cut off the leg." Samuel muttered to himself.

* * *

Meg perked up, but then immediately hid her head below the window as a group of people, of whom Dean could only guess were the demons, arrived back from wherever they'd been and were standing in front of the house that Meg had said she and the others had been using while they were staying in Hunters Valley.

"That's them?" Dean asked, voice dropping as he looked at Meg. She nodded and peered up again. "What do we do?"

"You know what to do," Meg hissed back angrily. "If we have to go through the plan _one more time_ —"

Dean gave off a low laugh. "I am _messing_ with you."

Meg rolled her eyes and, at Dean's nod, stood. They weren't looking, and from what Dean could tell in his awkwardly situated position, beginning to enter back into the house. Whatever nefarious things that they'd been up to had been satisfying enough that they were early in calling it a day.

She walked to the doorway, blew a kiss back to where Dean was sitting and twisted her wrist around the doorhandle. Dean rolled his eyes at the kiss and sat more readily, placing his feet softly on the ground at the same time as the front door _clicked_ closed.

* * *

"Becka?" It was Sebastian who saw her first, walking over to them with the same subordinate low head as all the other demons had been wearing. "Where were you? We were just out celebrating!"

"Yes, Becka," Angelika's voice was outwardly the same, cheery, excited, but below was a frothing intense hatred. For something, or, Meg looked up to see Angelika's eyes fixed on her, someone. "What were you doing?"

Meg had suspected from the start that Angelika trusted her the least of all the demons who'd sworn themselves to her cause. She should have had her first suspicions when she'd asked for demons to pledge themselves to things in the first place. If Meg had learnt anything in her time trying to convince demons to join her in uprooting Crowley, it was that demons only ever played the board for themselves.

The last time demons had come together to really, honestly, wage a war with each other, they'd been sent back to hell with their tails between the legs and a douchebag of a king to show for it. Meg should have hated the Winchesters, she really didn't understand how just being in the same room as them didn't turn her physically sick. They'd stopped Lucifer, the one thing she had been truly passionate about. Her father, her brother, all she'd done before that time had just been in preparation. Lucifer's rising was to be her masterpiece.

But she supposed that if they could treat her with decency after all she'd done to them, then she at least could return the favour. And then of course was the issue of Castiel, chicken wings and all, and Meg really didn't want to think about him, or what he meant. She had hardly spoken to him since she was brought back to life, and of what she'd said, none of it had been important.

"Celebrating," Meg answered Angelika's question with a fierce smile and black eyes. She dropped her voice to a conspiring whisper. "I found a human who managed to escape the first wave."

"Really?" Angelika perked up. She furrowed her brow. "That's almost impossible. Of the few humans who survived the initial attacks, none of them are out in the open. Most of the humans have locked themselves in the Church's basement, and somebody had the bright idea of salting the doors and windows."

"Hunter?" Meg asked, wondering if it was worth going down there and freeing them to help her and Dean out.

Angelika shook her head. "Priest."

"Ah," Meg wrinkled her nose. She didn't like Priests, and they weren't overly fond of her either. What they _did_ enjoy was attempting an exorcism and then looking shocked when she slashed their throats.

"Ah indeed," Angelika smiled slightly.

"This human," Sebastian asked, looking almost eerily at the house she'd just walked out of. "They still alive?"

Meg just grinned, a slow, lazy smile that turned all the eyes around her obsidian black.

* * *

They saw the first Croat meandering about at the very edge of town. She was just young, a woman perhaps in her late 20's, with matted brown hair and a vacant, dying expression.

"That one's obvious enough," Samuel muttered, cocking his gun and pointing it at her head. Sam looked away as the shot rang out and the body dropped to the floor. She was just as much of a victim as anyone she would change.

He turned, surprised, when he felt Cas's hand on his shoulder. "It was the kindest thing for it."

"I know," Sam replied, his voice quiet but steady.

"How often you boys treat with the Croatoan Virus?" Samuel asked as they moved on. Cas scouted ahead for movement and people and Sam and Samuel walked side by side.

"A few times," Sam answered honestly. "We thought that we got rid of it all a few years back."

"You can't kill a virus, son," Samuel cackled, managing to be wise and bleak at the same time. "You can only stop it from spreadin', slow it down a touch."

"Right," Sam agreed, moving forwards and picking up the pace. Samuel met him, and together he, Cas and the old man entered into the town.

They picked off three more far gone Croat's from the outer streets, moving through them, silent except for the sounds of the bullets, and the casings falling to the ground. They walked around for nearly an hour, the eerie quiet pulling at Sam's psyche. If all the Croats were so far gone, then he wondered if the demons had accidently made the batch too potent. The humans bodies couldn't handle it. Without direction, they'd never make it to a main city.

"Whoa, look," Samuel pressed his hand on Sam's chest. "Dean,  Cas, check it out."

Sam looked across and saw a boy, maybe 15, looking around the centre of the town with a pinched, worried expression.

"Cas?" he asked, turning to the angel. Cas looked up at him and gave a small nod.

Sam pulled up his gun and zeroed in on the boys head.

"Whoa! Wait!" Samuel pulled Sam's hand down with a desperate stretch of energy. "He ain't far gone, he ain't far gone yet!"

"He will be soon, if we don't kill him," Sam pointed out, picking his arm up out of Samuel's grip and preparing his gun again. He hesitated and turned to the older man, who was watching the boy with wide eyes. "Not all of 'em are gonna look like bad extras in a zombie movie, Samuel. And there's no cure." He adjusted his gun so that the trajectory would hit the boy in the head. "Not all of 'em are gonna look like monsters."

He fired and the bullet hit its mark. The boy crumpled and Sam swallowed the bitter aftertaste. He hadn't wanted to kill that boy. But it was him or the rest of the world, and the rest of the world had thousands of boys who were just like him, and the rest of the world had his brother.

Sam forced through his concern for Dean and the group moved onward, far quieter than it had been. He hoped that he'd been right in his assumption that Meg and Dean would go after the demons, because  if they weren't, then all of this would have been for nothing.

* * *

"Sebastian and Laura can go," Angelika decided, the rest of the demons souring and crossing their arms as they heard her final decision. "The rest of you, with me. Our works not finished yet."

"Brave choice," Meg nodded. "Now if you'll just follow me—"

"That includes you, Becka," Angelika said sweetly, and Meg swallowed the panic that fluttered in her heart. Without her, Dean would be alone against two demons. It was true that Laura was a terrible fighter, but Sebastian was good. And powerful. She just hoped that Dean wasn't relying on her too much.

"Alright," Meg shrugged. She turned to the two expectant demons. Laura was nearly salivating and Sebastian's eyes were frighteningly hungry. From what Meg could understand, they'd scoured the town without finding any humans to play with. In their eyes, she'd given them a gift.

"He's just through there," she pointed at the house and the two looked Angelika, awaiting permission.

"Go," she laughed, heading into the basement. "We'll fill you in on everything when you get back."

* * *

Dean heard their voices before the door opened. But he only heard two sets of footsteps and cursed. Without Meg, there was no certainty that both demons would die without raising the alarm. The idea had been to slowly kill of Angelika's loyalists until she was alone. Then Meg would kill her, and the Croatoan problem would be more easily dealt with.

The thought of the zombies running around the town gave Dean a headache. They still had so much to do, and the day was only early.

The door opened, and the two demons looked in the house. He didn't recognise them, but he didn't expect to. Meg had assured him that Angelika wouldn't send them all, and that she'd dissuade her from coming herself. So these must be underlings.

He met their eyes, and he smiled.

They smirked and entered into the house, stopping dramatically before they could take another step.

They both tried again, hitting the invisible wall and blinking in surprise. They turned their attention to their feet, finding nothing amiss, they looked skyward, to the devils trap drawn hastily onto the roof.

" _Hunter_ ," the female demon hissed, eyes glowing black.

"Becka, the _traitor_ —"

"Not, 'Becka', actually," Dean corrected him, pulling his angel blade and flask of holy water out. "Meg. Meg Masters? Surely you've heard of her."

The male hissed. "Traitor to our kind, Angel-Lover, friend of the Winchesters. Yes, we know of her."

"Becka is Meg?" the female demanded, and Dean was suddenly very glad that he had the Devils trap separating them and her. "That _she-beast_. I'll rip her _head_ off!"

Dean didn't take pleasure in pain, but he would enjoy this. "And me? Don't you want to know the name of the man who killed you?"

"Who?" the male spat, glaring at Dean with all he could muster,

"Dean Winchester, partner," Dean grinned, pulling the angel blade into a slow revolving circle in his hand. "Leave your name, nightmare and number after the beep."

Before their eyes could register the understanding, he cut through their throats, slicing off the females jugular and then burying the blade into the males chest before he could raise the alarm. The skeletons of the demons flickered that bizarre orange light and the bodies fell to the floor.

Dean moved the bodies off to the living room, and waited for the next demons who were coming his way.

* * *

"If we can get one of the test subjects to New York, or Kansas City," Angelika pushed her pen over the map. "Then we'll be able to use a fresher Croat from each place and take them on from there."

The basement walls dripped with human blood and the floor was filthy with guts, but Demons being Demons, no one bothered to clean it up. Meg felt faintly nauseated, and also faintly embarrassed for feeling sick.

"Right," Meg nodded. She placed her finger on the map and let it hover over the capital. "I think before New York, we should take it to DC." There was no real reason behind what she was saying, she just wanted to keep Angelika's attention on her for as long as possible, and make it seem like what she was discussing was integral to their cause. "If we can cause enough panic in Washington, then the rest of the country would fall far more easily."

"But then the virus would become publicised, and the people will know what to look for," Angelika rebuffed, confused. "We have gone over this, Demon. There is a reason for the path we are taking."

"If we drop the virus in New York, then they'll learn as well," Meg pointed out. "I say, if we want to make a real impact, we put it in the place where it will cause the most damage the fastest."

"Not in human lives," Angelika understood. "But in human _fear_."

"What better statement to make to Crowley?" Meg asked, the hatred that surrounded his name the only thing that she hadn't lied about while working for Angelika's crusade to employ Abaddon's anarchist tactics back to life. "Look at how much control we would create over such a short time period." Meg tapped the map again. "It would show him that we're smart, that we're not causing blind chaos. It would force him to take us seriously."

Angelika's smile would have been blinding if she'd been human, and her eyes hadn't been so bloodthirsty. "I like you, Becka." She looked around, seeing the other two demons just watching the two of them. "Where are Laura and Sebastian?"

"You allowed them to use the human I found," Meg informed her, hoping that none of the demons could heard the painful knocking of her heart against her ribs. "They've been gone for quite some time."

"They have," Angelika agreed. She looked at the two demons watching them. "Go, you two, find Sebastian and Laura. I need them here." She smiled at Meg. "Plans have changed."

 _The most certainly have_ , Meg flashed her smile back.

The two demons left for the door, entering up into the sunny world above.

* * *

It all happened so quickly, and Sam didn't know what he could have done to make it all better.

The Croat, half mad with sickness but still well enough to launch an attack on the Hunter, leapt out from the doorway of an old shop. Sam fell heavily to the ground, and throughout all the shouting, the Croat cut her fingernail across his collarbone and let the blood from her own cut seep into his.

Sam shoved her off and stood, immediately falling backward as the exertion took over him. He hit back against the brick of the shop and felt his shoulders collide with the harsh wall.

"Sam!" Cas huddled down next to him and took his forearm, pulling him into a more comfortable sit. The Croat died, two blasts from Samuel's gun.

Sam watched, heart in his throat, as he realised what the man would do next. Samuel turned, sombre, apologetic, and fixed his rifle to Sam's head.

"Blood on blood contact, right?" Samuel reminded them, looking from Cas's desperate, demanding eyes to Sam's shocked, terrified ones. "Sorry, Dean." He cocked his gun and screwed one eye shut. "But we gotta do this."

* * *

Dean finished off the two new demons much like the other ones. They fell with an angel blade to the heart and a searing flash of holy water across their skin. He hadn't bothered with gloating this time, just getting the job done. He was worried about Meg, about Sam, about this whole damned situation.

As soon as the demons were finished off, he knew he couldn't stand around idly. He picked his gun off the floor, his sawed off stuffed with rock salt bullets and stepped over the demons corpses, over the threshold and into the sun.

It was a beautiful day. The sky was a periwinkle blue and the clouds that had huffed along the outer reaches of the horizon had hazed off into nothingness. Days like these led to nights with a sky full of stars and a world warm to sit on well into the dying hours of the afternoon. But Dean didn't have time to focus on that, because he needed to find Sam, or help Meg.

He hesitated outside the house, looking down the street, feeling again like he was being watched. He knew Meg could handle herself, but if she didn't, then the virus would only become a problem again. He didn't even know—

He cut off the train of thought as best he could, but it still ran back, snaked along the emotional reaches of his mind. _Sam might not even be alive_.

With a resigned huff, he walked away from the house and down through the town. His brother had probably convinced the man to join him in shooting as many Croats as possible. So he decided to look here in the town first.

* * *

" _No_ ," Cas launched himself at Samuel, springing up from next to Sam. Samuel cracked his rifle against Cas's temple, and though it shouldn't have, Cas fell back, stunned. Samuel turned the rifle on Sam and offered him another apologetic grimace.

"It could'a been any of us," Samuel said, as if he thought it would placate Sam. "Don' worry, I'll make sure its quick."

"I'm _immune_ ," Sam played his last card desperately. "I promise, I'm _immune_."

"You said there was no cure!"

"There isn't," Sam closed his eyes, knowing, suddenly realising, with a jarring reality that the gun would not miss. The bullet would bury itself into his brain, and like Death had promised, he would die before Dean. Dean would be forced to live with the knowledge that Sam had died for nothing. "But I _promise_ , I'm immune!"

"That ain't even you talkin' anymore, Dean," Samuel shook his head sadly. Sam flashed his eyes open and looked at Cas, but the Angel was still stunned, only now groggily coming back into terms with the world. "It's the virus. It's the damned virus." His finger pressed softly against the trigger, preparing itself for one final squeeze. "I'm so sorry, son."

The man jerked and Sam turned to see Cas, still unsteady, still lost, getting to his feet and wiping blood from the top of his head. "You don't _touch_ him."

"Your partners _gone_ , Castiel," the man snapped at him. He'd always held Cas at a distaste because of his apparently 'psychic' powers, but now it seemed that he hated the angel. Whatever pretences he'd thrown up had been for Sam's benefit only. "He's _dead_. Let him go with a little _dignity_."

"He's _not_ ," Cas countered, staring at the man with a burning, protective hatred. "He told you, he's _immune_."

"How?" Samuel demanded. "How can you—"

All three heads turned as a massive shout of anger came from the end of the street. Samuel didn't know it yet, but he'd made a mistake, letting the man with murder in his eyes and a gun on his hip see someone standing over his little brother with a gun pointed at his head.

And then, sneaking up behind Samuel, a victim of the Croatoan virus prepared for attack.

* * *

Angelika checked her watch, and while her head was bowed, Meg snuck her fingers around the cold metal of an Angel Blade. It hadn't been easy to find, and she had to lie to and hurt a lot of people.

Thankfully, lying and hurting people were her two specialities, and having absolutely no guilt over the concept of her life above others solidified her position to herself. Demon. She was a demon.

What made Demons, demons, wasn't their cruelty or evil, it was their _selfishness_. And Meg had no qualms in admitting she was the most selfish person she knew. If you ignored that one time she sacrificed her life for two humans and an angel. Meg scowled. Now wasn't the time for an existential crisis.

"Where are they?" Angelika wondered. They'd come to drawing red lines across the map of the States to show where things would be heading after they took DC, but the longer the other demons took, the more pressing their absence became. Soon Angelika would leave to go find them, and then she might find Dean, or Sam, and Meg couldn't let that happen.

Meg pulled her Angel Blade out and whipped it at Angelika's head.

With a cry the upper demon stumbled back, just missing the swift knife. She hissed at Meg and bunched her hands into fists. "How _dare_ —"

Meg ignored her and whipped out again, flashing her arms forward twice before Angelika caught her arm and pushed her back, kicking her in the chest. Meg stumbled and felt as her lungs compressed, struggling to breath and wandering pitifully backward as they reinflated.

Angelika strode forward, kicking out. Meg caught her foot with her hand just in time, and with all the strength she could muster, _twisted_ the foot hard and fast enough that the ankle broke. The crack settled, and then Angelika let out a scream of pain.

Meg shoved her back, but Angelika's fury had made her strong. Hissing, she set her foot down and stood on it. She shook, but she was ignoring the pain, or waiting for the bone to heal. Either way, Meg needed to press her advantage now.

Meg cut out with her blade again and again, the slicing arc of silver missing Angelika's neck by hairsbreadths every time. She ground her teeth into a snarl in frustration, and kicked out, sending the already badly balanced Demon to the floor.  Meg stepped over her, pressed her hand to the floor with the heel of her boot and kneeled on her superiors chest.

Angelika glared up at her, eyes flashing to black as she spat, saliva and blood hitting the front of Meg's shirt. " _Demon_."

"You say that like you _aren't_ one, Cleopatra," Meg said, her voice hushed and dark in the gloom of the basement. "But here's the thing." She traced Angelika's face with the tip of her blade. "You _aren't_ Abaddon's chosen one, and you _aren't_ a goddess reincarnated, and I beat you." Meg's teeth were white when she grinned, her lips ruby red. " _I beat you_. I just want you to know that. Before you die again. That I, Meg Masters, killed you."

"The demon bitch that fell in love with the Winchesters?" Angelika spat, blood frothing about her teeth. "I should have _killed_ you as soon as I found you."

"I found _you_ , Napoleon," Meg informed her silkily, pressed her knee to Angelika's neck until the demon squeaked in protest. "And you better not forget it."

Meg flipped the Angel Blade in her hand and held it over Angelika's heaving chest. With a final smirk, she drove the blade home, feeling the spatter along her chin and beside her neck, the convulsing last moment panic of the lungs and heart as she severed through them, and watched as the demons skeleton flickered like a badly wired light through the skin of her vessel.

Meg stood, panting, wiping the blood from her brow. She looked at the dead body, regarded her for a moment, and then followed the path out to the light of day.

* * *

" _Sam_!" Dean yelled, and both Sam and Samuel flinched and turned. Samuel's face went pale, and he turned his gun to face it onto Dean.

Sam felt something primordial and instinctive build up in his chest. He jumped up and forced the man to the ground, and then felt himself ripped up and off. He staggered through the air and hit the road with a grunt and an explosion of pain behind his eyes. He tried to push himself up, but he couldn't. It felt like his brain had shut down and was now restarting.

"Sam?" Cas's face appeared over him, concerned, but fleeting. Sam didn't have the time to tell Cas that he was fine before the angel had pulled away.

Sam heaved himself onto his hands and watched with horror as a Croat wrestled with Samuel. The man snarled in the effort to get the monster off, and Cas was moving, darting from beside Sam to the fight but he wouldn't be fast enough. Sam could see that he wouldn't be fast enough.

Dean was running down the road, eyes wide in fear.

Sam didn't know why the Croat had simply removed him, why it had gone for the old man instead. He didn't know why the virus had morphed to such an extent that the Croat's had an ultimatum, a chosen victim rather than just a long line of casualties. But Sam did know one thing, and that was that the Croat wasn't trying to change Samuel, it was trying to kill him.

 Cas's hand brushed the back of the Croat just before the monster twisted its hands around the top of Samuel's head and started to twist. Dean, who'd avoided using his gun before to try and keep Samuel safe, not confident enough in his own shot to not hit the man rather than the monster, now started to fire quick rounds. But his running and nervousness was making him shaky, and the bullets passed uselessly overhead.

The monsters hands _twisted_ and in a sickening crunch, Samuel's head snapped.

Without Samuel there to fool, Cas grabbed the Croat, span it around the placed his palm deftly on the monsters head. It didn't even have a chance to growl before Cas's eyes lit up blue and the Croat died, the wash of blue light wrecking its body.

The corpse fell on top of Samuel's and for a moment, they all stood perfectly still. Cas was bent over the bodies, eyes devoid and dark, Dean had rushed up and was squatted beside Sam, one hand on his brothers shoulders, and Sam was sitting in shock, brain still hazy, eyes still out of focus.

And then, at once, in synch, they began to move.

* * *

Meg tugged Cas away, just after he informed them that he would have to leave, and soon, because this would definitely be something that Sariel would want to hear about.

He allowed himself to be moved, and Sam and Dean watched as she dragged him to another house.

"Well, I don't wanna know what they're up to," Dean muttered, crossing his arms. Sam made a half hearted laugh to respond, but he could hardly talk, let alone respond appropriately to his brothers terrible humour.

"Right," Sam said awkwardly.

Dean gave his brother a side eye, and then pulled onto his wrist to follow him. "Come on, they'll probably be a while—"

"Gross," Sam intoned.

"And we need to get you an ice pack or somethin' for that head of yours," Dean nodded up to where Sam's skull had collided with the concrete. Sam absently ran a hand over the blood hardening on the hairs at the back of his head and looked up to the warm oranges of the sky's sunset. Cleaning up the Croat's had taken the rest of the day, and they'd found the survivors as Meg said they'd be, in the bottom of the church. All the people agreed readily to getting the Hell out of dodge, and Sam had overseen them crossing onto the Highway and then making their way down through to the next town.

They couldn't be sure that they got them all, but Sam knew that the monsters would eventually sort themselves out. Meg had promised to hang around and keep an eye out for a few days after and Sam trusted her.

Sam followed his brother as Dean led him back to the Impala, ignoring, for just a moment, all the death and devastation, the pounding at the back of his head and the gritty reminder of the cost of his immunity, and focused on his brother. Dean's hand on his wrist, his eyes soft and kind whenever he looked at his brother, and the way Cas had fought for him.

He was surrounded by friends. By family. Nothing was so terrible that they couldn't push through it together. And they would be ok.


	19. Final Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the ruins of Bobby Singer's Salvage Yard, something is discovered that could threaten the futures of hunters, forever.

There are lots of theories of what the true purpose of the abandoned, fiery lot just outside of Sioux Falls was used for. It had burnt down a few years previously, but even then, whenever adults tried to recall specifically _what_ it was that Bobby Singer had been in the business of, the answer constantly eluded them. They remembered a long line of cars, so perhaps a mechanic? But it didn't sit right with them, and they weren't invested enough in their children's curiosity to think harder.

So Singer's Salvage Yard decayed and lost itself, and weeds grew through the dashboard of his broken down car. Eventually the place would be sold and bought and reclaimed by the council, but today it stood as abandoned, lost. Anything of worth had been taken and hidden by Bobby, or stolen in the years that followed his death.

But there were more things preserved in the wreckage of Bobby Singer's home than just the a few scraps and bolts that he'd died before he could collect. To the naked eye they didn't possess any worth, but Bobby was an old fashioned man, with an old fashioned sense of documenting things.

Despite his best efforts to clean and destroy and burn all the bodies he'd buried out by the car yard, Bobby had forgotten this one, crucial thing.

Wounded and starving, a vampire fell into Bobby's home as a way to regain herself, a way to mend her injuries and hide her tired skin from the sun. Desperate and dying, fit and feverish with the dead man's blood charging through her veins, she lashed her hand out in blind panic. For something to hold onto as her sight it lost, eyes staring at the ceiling.

Her hand fell upon an old notebook. Something that should have burnt in the fire. But because fate never cut the Winchesters a break, and because the last time they'd been dealt a hand it had been a good one, her hand floundered once, drifted away once, and then fell back.

Her palm hit the cover, the curve of her fingers felt the edge of the paper, and her hand contracted. She secured the book into her grasp, small enough that it almost fit into her palm, and pulled it to her chest. Like a priest seeking salvation from a bible, she held it tight to her heart, pressed achingly to her flesh.

When she awoke completely, three days later, she was still holding it. As soon as she realised what it was, a slow, cruel smile crept over her lips.

* * *

Sam had to pause when he saw the caller ID, because, like, no _way_. As far as he could remember, the caller hated him. With a passion. She blamed him for the death of her family and for all the other twisted shit that came after. Sam could hardly begrudge her, because, yeah, he _did_ release the serpent from the cage, and the demons were technically celebrating his 'victory'. So it didn't make sense to him, that she would call.

He let the phone ring and just stared at it, toying his bottom lip with his teeth.

Dean noticed his indecision, righting himself from tying his laces off the edge of their Motel issued beds. "What's up?"

"It's..." Sam grimaced, and toyed his finger over the answer key. He knew that if he let it ring for much longer, either she'd hang up or it would fall over to the answering machine. "You remember that hunter girl who Abaddon kidnapped last year? Tracy Bell?"

"Oh yeah," Dean nodded, running his hand over the back of his head and standing, nonplussed. "Why's she calling?"

"I dunno," Sam replied evasively, the ringing tone sounding out through the room. Tracy Bell, who he failed, Tracy Bell, who represented a whole new generation of Hunter, forced into the life because of Sam's fuck up. Tracy Bell, who was _right_ to be angry with Sam. Tracy Bell, who stood for Sam's weakness and all the mistakes he'd made.

"It could be important," Dean said, in a sort of offhand way that Sam knew was a forced. Dean was worried about the girl. But she'd called Sam, on his new number, and Dean was right. Tracy wouldn't talk to Sam unless it was important. Unless she didn't have any other choice.

Sam tapped the answer button and, steeling himself, held the phone next to his ear. "Tracy Bell?"

" _Yeah, so I'm alive, but only just_ ," the girl said tersely, springing straight to the heart of the matter in true, jaded Hunter style. She paused a bit, and from Sam could tell, she was driving. " _Uh, this is Sam Winchester, right_?"

Sam cleared his throat and nodded to Dean, who'd been hovering by the end of the bed, listening into the conversation with a half curious expression absently on his face. "Yeah. Sam, and Dean's here too. What's wrong?"

" _Well, look, I don't know..._ " Tracy took a deep breath, and Sam heard it vibrate through the speaker. He could almost feel the adrenalin leaving her body, the rush of tiredness that followed. Something had happened to Tracy, and Sam felt his heart slow, his blood cool, his mind melt into something driven and cautious. " _I don't know where to start_."

"Hey, Tracy, Tracy Bell," Sam said, and he made sure his voice was soft enough, that his words were comforting enough. Tracy was just a kid. She was just a _kid_. And she deserved his patience, his kindness as much as anyone. _More_ than anyone perhaps. "Tell me from the beginning."

Tracy took another deep breath, but this time is sounded a little less desperate and a hell of a lot more controlled than the first. " _Ok. Right, so Carlos calls me..._ " She trailed off. " _You boys, you ever hear of a man named Bobby Singer_?"

Sam would not panic for Tracy, but he would for Bobby. He stood up, and with wild eyes met Dean, quiet and packing off in the corner. "Why? Yes! I mean, yeah, we knew him. But he's dead. I mean, like, he died, a few years ago. But we knew him, for ages. For years. Years ago now. Has something happened? Something's happened, hasn't it? To him? To Bobby? But how could it? He's—" He stifled anymore ranting with a hand across his face and into his hair. Dean was raising his eyebrow, and Sam knew that he was babbling. It probably wasn't doing Tracy much good to hear that Sam was panicking on the other end of the line.

Sam took a brief breather and then returned to the call. "I'm sorry, Tracy. What was it that you wanted to say?"

" _His house burnt down_ ," Tracy said, voice a little shaky, but more in control than he'd heard it throughout the entire conversation. It was like she'd picked up the slack from his hysteria and become the sane one of the pair. " _You know that too_?"

Sam was honestly surprised that he hadn't splurged that piece of information as well within his entirely embarrassing rant, but he kept that to himself. "Yeah. We—" _were there_. He caught himself though, deciding that the less Tracy knew about him and Dean messing up the world, the better. God knew she had a bad enough image of them already. He coughed awkwardly to make up for the pause. "We, uh, heard. Why? What about it?"

" _I don't_ —" Sam could almost imagine her lips tightening grimly, her hands clenched around the wheel, eyes locked ahead onto the road, unseeing, unfeeling. Worried out of her brain. In their world, there were hunters, and there were civilians. Civilians fell into many different categories, but Hunters fell into only two. Deceased, alive. There was no room in that bare, clinical world for children, but Sam couldn't help it. Over and over again like a limerick, like a rhyme. _She's just a kid, she's just a kid. She's just a kid._ " _He had a book. A book with the names and addresses of Hunters in it. And something found it, and they're hunting us down_."

"The Hunters?" Sam asked, feeling as though an bucket of ice water had been dumped onto his head. "Someone's hunting the Hunters?" And that brought back all the crap he and Dean had been through with Gordon and he's crucible for justice. His vendetta against Sam that burned a thousand times brighter than his hatred for Vampires.

Dean looked pained in desperation to know what Sam was hearing, but Sam stuck up his hand to turn Dean quiet as he listened to Tracy.

" _No_ ," she corrected, almost cross, like a big sister placed in charge of the younger children. " _Not someone, some_ thing _. They're banding together._ " The hysteria in her third shuddering breath was a whistle through the phones speaker, a howling crash of _no_ and _how_ and _this wasn't supposed to be possible why is this possible how the hell do you fix something like this_ —

"Sammy?" Dean asked finally, impertinent, wide eyed, staring at his brother holding a pair of holey socks in his left hand. Sam looked across the room and met his eyes, wide and bright and terrified.

"A band of monsters," Sam said slowly.

" _They're coming for all of us._ "

* * *

Dean parked the car in the cemetery where he'd saved Sam, and paused before he got out of the car. Neither had said it, but here was strange, and important, and private. Cas had saved Sam's soul, Dean had pulled him out of the dirt, the sky had been blue and grey and the ground had been cold, but Dean had hugged Sam to his chest all the same. Letting out great, heaving breaths of relief. Staving off tears by shutting his eyes as tight as he could.

As far as they'd been hunting since then, they'd found no reason to come back. It wasn't far from Lebanon, and Cas had grown scarily good at stealing cars. Dean was pretty sure that he overheard Cas and Hannah talking about buying a car for Heaven for them to use whenever they came out this side of the world, but then Cas worried about how they'd get the car to the separate portals, and Hannah reminded them that, although incredibly all-powerful, they didn't actually have any money. Except for that which they had from their vessels, which was ultimately, stealing.

Dean knew that the walk _away_ from the direction of the Bunker to Lebanon must be infuriating, especially when something important was happening. That was half the reason that he and Sam were there now, standing solemn guard as a bright light emanated from the centre of the old crypt. Sam shielded his eyes, but Dean didn't, letting the grace burn into the back of his retina's, letting his eyelids creep shut when he couldn't take it anymore.

It was over in a flash, and Sam lowered his arm, wincing off the bright light.

"You all good?" he asked, uncomfortable still. Dean felt a glowing pride in himself that he'd managed to withstand it for that long. The light, that light, he'd seen it before. _Stared_ into it. Zachariah, when he was killed, hadn't Dean just _stared and stared_ and waited for the pain to come, for the end to come, and was instead just _consumed_ by that power and light?

 _He'd_ killed Zachariah, and he'd _conquered_ Zachariah. But that fact; his lack of sensitivity to douche bag rays was something he just wanted to leave well alone. There was no reason to just keep pushing when it would only lead to another world of trouble.

"Yeah, fine," Dean dismissed easily. He nodded out to the field, and Sam turned to where two figures were appearing. Both with dark hair, both with fair faces and clothes that were licked at by the wind.

"Cas brought Hannah?" Sam guessed, watching as the two angels made their way through the tomb stones. Cas waved a hand in greeting and Sam and Dean complied, mirroring his gesture. "Since when?"

"Since now, I guess," Dean narrowed his eyes and tried not to feel like the involvement of the second highest ranking angel in Heaven was as ominous as it looked. "You think Cas asked her?"

Sam was studying them, tilting his head, eyes soft and compassionate. "I don't... I think she offered."

And Dean couldn't help the smile that split over his lips as well. He looked out with his brother, and watched as they could make out more and more of the two figures features. Hannah's regal cheekbones and fringe, Cas's serious eyes and Jimmy Novak's laugh lines.

"Hello, Sam, Dean," Cas nodded to them. Dean smiled in greeting, a tight, very Dean-ish smile, but Cas was too serious to appreciate it.

"Cas, Hannah," Sam smiled at them both, and Hannah stood to attention.

"Where was the first death?" Cas asked quickly, and only now Dean could see that his skin was pale, that his palms were consumed in a fist. The angel was _worried_.

Like a stab in the gut, Dean realised. Cas was worried for them. Cas had asked Hannah for _them_. For him and Sam. He felt a oddly nurturing fondness for the angel expel itself into a smile that seemed inappropriate for the moment, but Dean couldn't help it. This was Cas. This was Cas _exactly._ There was nothing more important to him than humanity, than Sam and Dean.

"What, no 'how are you'?" Dean asked lazily. When Cas's face darkened, and Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably next to him, he sobered. "Right, sorry. First death, according to Tracy Bell—"

" _Reliable_ Tracy Bell," Sam said, as if it needed clarification. Hannah raised her eyebrows slightly, but didn't say anything, keeping her amusement to herself.

"Right, yeah," Dean swallowed an eye roll and went on. "So, the first one was in the Big Apple. Dude had a hunting motel that catered for Hunters from all across America. Because, you know what they say—"

"There's always a hunt to be found in New York," Sam finished, the childhood ghost of a smile teasing at his lips.

"Really?" Hannah asked, eyes wide. Dean could see her probably remembering all the times that, while she'd been on earth, _she'd_ been to New York.

"It's just a saying," Sam told her, a little stand-offish, like Sammy when he was a kid, desperate to prove himself to be a capable hunter to Dean and their Dad, brain bursting with Latin and old Lore and the thousand and one ways to gank a ghost. "Like in all big cities, there's going to be something that's hiding in the shadows."

"Why don't Hunters focus on them, then?" Hannah asked, confused.

"Well, that might make sense," Dean shrugged. "But they can't really stay in the same place for too long, and the pissy thing about cities is that they're a bit better at detecting the odd credit card fraud."

"Ah," Hannah sounded.

"And next?" Cas demanded. He looked haggard and irritated now. Like the brothers didn't realise what danger they were in. Dean wanted to remind Cas that Bobby didn't even know that the Bunker existed before he'd kicked the bucket, and that even if the monsters did find them, they'd have a hard time sneaking in. The place was rigged to the teeth with wardings and charms and just about every spell in the book. No way even an elite monster squad would be able to Escape from Alcatraz into their space. "The next Hunter?"

"After that there were two more," Sam relayed efficiently, ever the bookish, reliable nerd. "Lana James in Appleton, Minnesota and Cole Stone in Virginia."

"They're not following any pattern, then," Cas said grimly.

"Well, unlike the last time there was systematic killings placed onto our radar, they don't _want_ to be stopped," Dean reminded them all brightly. The last time, it'd been all the people that he and Sam had saved from Chuck's _fucking_ book series. Crowley had rolled out the carpet though; it had been an invitation for them to hand over the demon tablet. As irritating as Crowley was, he was preferable to Abaddon in that he wasn't senseless. Calculated moves could be foreseen, could be prevented. Abaddon was predictable in her anarchy, it was true, but it was what she would have done within the madness that was terrifying.

Sam chuckled darkly. "Well, yeah. There is that."

"What's the plan of action so far?" Hannah piped in, recovered from her shock at the illegality of the two humans she'd come to care for. Hannah might be friendly and nice and just as in love with humanity as Cas, but she was a stickler for the rules. When everyone turned to look at her, she shrunk in on herself slightly. "I mean, of the Hunters. What are the hunters doing to protect themselves?"

"Tracy Bell was the first one to work it out, and she called everyone she could," Dean said, grim now, thinking of all the potential dramatic loss this could have. All that knowledge, all the skill and goodwill, gone in an instant. "Some are leaving; I know Krissy, Josephine and—" Dean avoided Cas's eyes. "Claire are heading to Mexico."

He was glad he did, he was glad he missed Cas's wince and his wounded expression. He was glad he didn't have to play witness to his friend putting himself back together.

"Carlos is meeting family in Australia," Sam added.

Hannah looked at all of them, face white, eyebrows furrowed. "But... if they're gone... who'll take care of the monsters?"

Dean recoiled. "Hannah, they're dying—"

"And the monsters they hunt are _not_ ," she pressed, from  Castiel, to Sam, to Dean, desperate to make them understand. "They can't _all_ leave, what if they never come back?"

"They'll come back," Dean promised her, but it sounded like an empty one. Because if the Hunters left, like honey bees from an infected hive, following wherever it was safest, then won't the monsters just have won anyway? They'd be free to run amok, free to kill off the newest hunters as soon as they emerge. There would be no war anymore, there'd be chaos. Death on a massive scale. Hunting is something every monster is aware of, the deterrence to the system.

Hunters were the thing that made up the balance, and suddenly to desperate reality of the situation sunk in, and Dean wasn't so ready to make his usual tirade of jokes.

"You're right, Hannah," Sam offered, offering her a smile. Sam had always understood this better than Dean, always able to see the ways that the dominos would fall. Perhaps he and Hannah shared that in common, that picture of the endgame. Allowing the niggling doubt that Dean always ignored take over them, consume them and spit them out a wiser person. Realism always felt like a pretty depressing way to live, and Dean's life was depressing enough without it.

"So where are we going?" Cas asked finally.

"Tracy Bell is calling together all the Hunters left so that we gather together to have some sort of chance against these guys," Sam explained. "Problem is, a lot of Hunters Hunt alone." He grimaced. "Because they like to _be_ alone."

"So they just won't come?" Hannah frowned, confused. "They'll stay alone, when they _know_ that they'll be more defenceless?"

Sam tightened his jaw and gave a short nod.

"Do you wanna ride with us, or steal another car?" Dean asked gruffly, looking at Hannah who, ramrod straight, was much more inclined to choose the other option.

Cas was a little more hesitant. "We'd hate to intrude on your..." he waved his hand. "Uh, _you_ time."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Well, Cas. You make is sound so dirty."

Beside him, Sam coughed to hide his laughter.

"That's not what I meant," Cas assured them, not looking all that cut up about it.

"We'll ride with you," Hannah squeaked finally, looking fit to burst until she spoke up. In Heaven she was Cas's superior, but on earth, with them, she followed his lead. Hannah was a good leader, and she was a good soldier, and she always had the best interests of Heaven at heart, but she was not a human. She had not lived on earth like Cas had. She had not see the things he had seen, or even had the support that he'd had when he first came to earth. It was a strange place when she fell, and no less scary when she moved among it like a human.

"Alright, glad that's decided," Dean said, still bemused about 'you time'.  "But me and Sam get front row seats."

"Really?" Cas said, deflating a little.

" _Yes_ , really," Sam said defensively, ready to fight for the shotgun seat.

Cas looked dangerously close to sulking, and Hannah's eyes were brightening with restrained laughter, and Dean climbed into the front of the car.

They all sat in after him, Hannah taking the spot behind the driver and then Cas behind Sam. From the rear vision mirror Dean could see them just sitting, Hannah already immersed with the scenery outside the window. It takes a certain skill, Dean thought, to be able to put up with long car trips. And the trick is to just lose yourself in the world around you. To just _lose_ everything and become as free and infrequent as a bird darting through the sky. The impala jerked to movement with a low rumble and Dean steered the car out to the mouth of the parking lot.

"You called Meg yet?" Sam asked Dean suddenly, looking up from the old box of tapes that housed Dean's most valuable cassette tapes with a start.

"Uh, no _,_ " Dean said, slow, purposeful voice, focusing on the road but wishing he could spare a moment from turning out into the oncoming traffic to give his brother a look. "That was _your_ job."

Sam huffed in frustration and slammed the box down on the seat between them. "No it was _not_. I _specifically_ remember _telling_ you to call her, that we could _definitely_ use her help—"

"Perhaps it would be best if you did not," Cas's voice came low and oddly urgent from the back seat.

 _Now_ Cas had Dean's attention. Last time the two had been together, Sam and Dean had left them in the town overrun by the overly potent Croatoan virus as cooked up by some of Abaddon's lackey's that just didn't get the memo. Dean had assumed that, well... he didn't know _what_ he assumed, but Cas was sitting in the back seat, all nervous like a dropped lover, and Meg didn't exactly strike Dean as the _for better or for worse_ type. Whatever the Hell Megstiel was, it had never developed passed initiating stages.

Dean had never thought he'd be recommending that an angel _Define the Relationship_ with his demonic maybe-lover maybe-friend.

"What happened?" Sam voiced for him, the kid turning his head with a malicious excitement in his eyes that _everyone_ got whenever there was a bit of juicy gossip to be shared.

"Meg the demon?" Hannah asked, and Cas served her a sharp nod.

Hannah sat back and placed her hands properly on her knees. "Oh." Her mouth made a perfect circle.

Dean took it that she didn't exactly approve.

"Meg took me away and—"

"Keep it PG," Dean warned him.

Cas frowned. "Why would I not—" his voice dropped and his eyes widened, and his face grew a mottled red colour that was less blush and more _outrageous embarrassment._ "I didn't—I would _never_ —she's a _demon_ —I kissed her _once_ and it was _ages_ ago and I don't _care_ that she's pretty and strong and loyal despite..."

"You just have to keep digging, don't you, Castiel?" Hannah sniped, breaking the brief silence that fell after Cas's mini rant. Dean coughed to hide his laugh, and Sammy was biting his lip and staring at his lap.

"And what happened?" Sam asked, voice still a little thick with barely constrained laughter, but passable enough that unless they were looking at him, knew him inside and out or had a pretty good idea at what sent Sam off, neither angel would notice. "With Meg, I mean? If you two didn't..." Sam trailed off, making a face as he tried to think of a way to put it. " _Frolic_ together."

"Meg asked me to join her crusade against Crowley," Cas said, and if Dean didn't know better, he'd say that she angel sounded a little sad, a little bitter, broken. The mood in the car fell dramatically as Dean realised what Cas would have had to say to her. "And I refused."

"Why?" Dean asked, thinking about how much better it would be if Meg was in charge over torture-happy Crowley of the friggin Crossroads, who was only good to them when they could return the favour, and who killed Meg when she was trying to protect them.

"Because that would be betraying Heaven," Hannah said softly, more compassionate over the subject than Dean had seen her yet. Hannah was a good angel, she believed in a lot of the things that Cas did. Dean didn't think that she thought of demons as anything beyond vermin and filth, but Dean thought that he could see her learning differently. And he thought that Hannah could see that within herself as well. "That would be betraying all of us."

Cas gave short nod of affirmation. He cleared his throat. "I did not... I did not wish to assist her for my own reasons as well." He shuffled his hands on his lap, skin scraping softly against the tan of his new coat.

"Huh," Sam articulated for all of them, and they let the silence stain out through the air, like the blood from a bullet wound sinking through the shirt of the victim. The tension heightened and then began to abate.

When they reached their first red light, Dean reached over and grabbed the tape that Sam had been fiddling with. His younger brother looked stricken as Dean, following the years of experience, slot the thing in with his first go, eyes still glued to the road.

He had to grin to himself when Asia began to play.

* * *

Tracy marched them through the house with a breakneck intensity, her mouth tight and eyes serious as they passed the other hunters who'd been called to group together. All those that had responded marked the minority, the rest preferring to take their own chances.

Hannah and Cas were following, and Sam felt himself narrowing his eyes in warning whenever a Hunter got a little too friendly. Most people knew Cas at least by sight, and Hannah's situation in Heaven and the description of her vessel had started to make the rounds as well. Most of the Hunters knew that the situation in Heaven was abating thanks to her and Sariel's efforts, but it didn't change the deep, rooted biases.

People hated the angels just as much, or perhaps even more so than the demons. Hells minions might represent the stain of evil impossible to eliminate, but the Angels stood for something much worse. They stood for the loss of faith. Of religion. Of the one thing that so many Hunters clung to during their fight for justice.

"We've called all the Hunters that are within the community, or at least," Tracy grimaced at the infuriating lack of organisation within the hunters. "Those who rely on the network and hand their phone numbers around."

"What's the thought?" Dean asked her as they moved passed the lounge room, stuffed with a bunch of hard looking men and women, smoking cigarettes and polishing their weapons. Sam had to say that if he were going to imagine a set of Hunters, _that_ would be it. Way to perpetuate the stereotype, guys. Sam had never been to Harvelle's bar during the nightly rush, but whenever he tried to call to mind what Ellen and Jo's place would have been like, that old room wasn't far off it. "Plan of action?"

"So far we're just congregating," Tracy told them tightly. She turned sharply and they all pulled up. She looked from Sam, her eyes only dusting him fleetingly, before turning to Dean and then harder when she faced Cas and Hannah. "Look, me inviting you guys isn't exactly earning me any brownie points around here. So stay quiet, stay low, and just do whatever they tell you."

Dean raised his eyebrows and turned to Sam with a side grin. "You know how it is, Sammy. We don't even belong to the Clubs we _belong_ to."

Sam didn't even bother trying to smile. There were Hunters like Jody and Garth and Carlos and Tracy who were the more forgiving of the bunch. Usually fresher faces, with a recent tragedy and a reason for being where they were. Then there were families like the Campbell's, who were shunned by more hunters than John Winchester had been, and then there were the hunters of John's generation and calibre. Hard lines and rugged faces, shrewd eyes, missing teeth and half a mind to pump anyone who twitches half full of buckshot. Those hunters had it in for the Winchesters. Hunters like—

Sam grimaced.

Hunters like Roy and Walt.

Being killed hadn't been all that fun or particularly memorable, less because it hurt and more because he had deserved it. The hunters believed that he and Dean had started the apocalypse.

Well?

They weren't wrong.

"You got anywhere we can park?" Sam asked Tracy lowly, turning the conversation back to the impatient girl in front of them.

Her face softened slightly and she nodded. "Up stairs, attic. Big enough to house the four of you and its pretty much the only room left."

Dean frowned. "We're at an old, crusty ass house, and you're sending us to the attic?"

"An old, crusty ass house _full of hunters_ ," Tracy stressed, raising an eyebrow. "If the place were haunted, we'd know."

"Oh, yeah, I wasn't worried about that," Dean dismissed with a wave of his hand. Sam had to give it to him, Dean knew how to work the power plays of the hunting community, something Sam had never really got the hang of. He'd budded up with Gordon, pretty much any contact their Dad made that didn't end with a death threat and had that lazy, cocky grin that Hunters liked so much. More than anywhere, Sam felt like the kid brother here. "The floorboards." He grinned and thumped Sam's arm. "Reckon they can hold up old Sasquatch here?"

He shook his head and rolled his eyes, zoning out as Dean continued to rattle on with Tracy. Hannah and Cas behind them weren't as uncomfortable as Sam would have feared. Hannah was toying with the castaway thread on the  hem of one of her sleeves and Cas was slowly looking around him, taking in the cringe worthy floral paintings dusted over and faded with age, and the odd yellowed doily strung up on the wall or lain out on a table as a cloth to place old silver frames with pictures too old to be made out without close examination.

"...Jody Mills..."

Sam broke out and back into the conversation for that. The only half good thing to come out of this was that he thought he was going to be seeing Jody and Alex again. The last time he'd heard from Charlie and Garth, they'd both been either just about to go off jet-setting or were already too far away to be much use. It seemed that Garth and Bess liked Alaska a little more than anyone could have foretold, and were extending their honeymoon into the foreseeable future. Charlie was excited to prattle on about her and Dorothy's trip to New Zealand, where they'd be doing to _real_ New Zealand stuff, like seeing all the Lord of the Rings sets and snowboarding.

Tracy was tilting her head and frowning. "Who's that?"

* * *

Jody listened to Dean very patiently, quiet until he had finished everything.

" _Well, thanks for the Heads up, Dean, but..._ " Dean could imagine her shrugging and looking over to where Alex was sitting or standing or just _being_. Because he knew from experience that if you wanted to make a big decision, you'd look to the person who you cared about the most and would be affected the most. Dean forced himself not to look over to where Sam was sitting. " _But Bobby didn't know Alex and I as hunters, you know_?"

"Yeah, I get ya," Dean said quickly. Clearing his throat. "But I'd just feel a little—"

" _Dean, I'm gonna have to cut you off there_ ," Jody said, in that tight, no nonsense tone Sam called her 'Mom voice'. " _Alex is halfway through a school week and I'm swamped with this case in Sioux Falls. We're not in danger._ " She hesitated before going on. " _Look, you knuckleheads figure something half way decent out, and we'll see if we can do anything to help. You really think there's any chance of an idea of attack being decided on faster with an ex-Vampire present?_ "

Dean's lips tweaked when he heard an indignant _hey!_ from the background.

"Yeah, nah, I guess not," he ran a hand over the back of his head and sighed. "I was just hoping..."

" _Don't worry, we get it_ ," Jody assured him. " _But we're not in danger. Bobby's notes probably don't even mention me as a hunter, let alone Alex. I mean, to him I was still a civilian, right?_ "

"Right," Dean nodded tightly.

" _I didn't even hit the scene until that..._ " Jody sighed heavily and gave a short laugh. " _Until that amazing date with the king of Hell._ "

"Yeah, fair enough," Dean said, sighing again. "It's just... they're going after Hunters, Jody. You and Alex mind yourself."

" _We went into the belly of Hell, remember_?" Jody said wryly, the tinny sound of the phone making her voice sound more bitter than amused. " _We'll be fine. Alex's been practising her shots down at the cabin in the woods._ "

"I still don't get how you can know that horror movies are real and _still_ insist on having that thing," Dean said, leaning against a wall. "It's just asking for a Shining."

Jody snorted. " _Nice._ "

"Well," Dean said, gruffly, awkwardly. "If that's all there is Jody, then just... uh, make sure you take care of yourself there."

" _Yeah_ ," Jody said, her voice a little sad, but fond and full of love. " _Yeah, I will, Dean. You take care of your brother and that angel of yours, you hear_?"

"Loud and clear," Dean looked to where Sam and Cas were talking. After setting down their stuff in the top room, they'd rejoined the congregation awkwardly, sitting at the back like the new kid in a hostile class. "See you round, Jody."

" _Bye there, Dean_."

He hit the end call button and slid the phone into his pocket, catching Sam's eye and giving a quick twist of his head.

Sam's face pinched with disappointment but not surprise. Dean supposed that Sam had assumed that Jody would remember that she had technically not even become a Hunter until last year and that Bobby had been far too fond of her to just list her name down amongst the bloodthirsty hunter he was keeping tabs on.

Dean walked over, to Sam and Hannah and Cas.

"She won't come?" Hannah guessed. She tilted her head. "Why is that?"

"She thinks that because Bobby Singer didn't list her down as a Hunter in his book that she will not be a target of the monsters," Cas explained to her in a precise, low voice. He blinked at Dean and Sam's bemused exchange of glances. "Am I wrong?"

"Nope, no," Dean shook his head. "Hit the nail on the head with that one."

"Guys," Tracy announced herself a little breathlessly. "We're all in the other room, discussing the current problem."

She bustled away without waiting for a reply, and Dean didn't have to turn to Sam to know that his little brothers mouth would be pinched in bitterness. Tracy darted off to another group of hunters Dean didn't recognise, and then another who he thought he might have met once or twice before.

"This is going to be _so so_ fun," Sam muttered darkly, leading their group without another word toward the room. Hannah and Cas exchanged a worried, quick glance and Dean repressed a sigh. They had no idea what they were into, and Dean had no doubt that all of their wide eyed belief in the human spirit would diminish as soon as they saw this sort of politics played out.

In a word, Hunters were dicks.

* * *

"Alright, alright, pipe down," A man, one who neither Sam nor Dean recognised but must have been around in the community for a respectable number of years stood by the door and raised his hands to request quiet from the gathered hunters. A few were side eyeing Cas and Hannah, and a few were side eyeing Sam and Dean. Sam didn't feel too threatened at that moment though, because everyone was side eyeing everybody. It was like in those terrible gangster movies when the two gangs were brought together under civil terms and everyone had knives itching in their sleeves. And then of course there was the obligatory plot twist and everything turned violent and everyone died.

Sam had half a mind to think that this would end in the exact same way.

"Thanks to Tracy for moving so damn fast and gettin' us lazy bastards to gather for this," He said, and Sam, for the life of him, couldn't remember his name. "Now that everyone who's comin' is comin', I say we start dealin' with the monster attacks like a bunch of goddamn adults."

"Hear, hear," a man by Dean's elbow muttered with a sour look thrown to Sam's older brother's back. Sam bristled but didn't say anything. Fights were rarely worth starting, especially in a room where most of the people either hated him, couldn't stand the sight of him or just thought it would be better off for him and Dean to be dead. Whatever it was, Sam wasn't feeling the love.

"The first issue," Tracy said, stepping forward boldly so that when she turned, the sea of faces were looking to her. "Is how exactly we're going to protect the hunters that wouldn't come. I—"

The man next to Dean snorted loudly and maliciously glared down Tracy's way.

Tracy faltered but went on. "I was thinking that even having some of the more informed people go around and check on the warding and set up..."

Tracy went on and Sam turned to the man. "Hey? You want to cool it?" He kept his voice low and friendly. He really didn't want to start a fight.

"What?" He demanded, turning to Sam, and Sam saw that the dude was definitely not a member of the Sam Winchester fan club. "And listen to the crap this bitch is spouting? Don't even know why she gets a damn say in the _first_ place. How long she been hunting? Three _weeks_?" He scoffed at his own joke and Sam grimaced, pulling away and turning back to the front where Tracy was concluding. "Never mind the fact that she don't know what the Hell she's talkin' 'bout anyhow." The man gave Sam a conspiring glance. "Women, you know. Can't handle the job."

"You wanna shut the hell up?" Dean demanded, voice a pitch or so louder than Sam's had been and attracting a few turning heads.

The man just raised his hands in the surrendering position and looked away, focusing on Tracy with a look of insulting amusement.

Sam glowered at the back of the man's head. _Hunters_.

"Hannah," Cas muttered, placing a hand on his friends arm. Placating, cool, friendly.

Sam looked to Hannah and couldn't help grin when he saw her pissed off head tilt and narrowed eyes, eyes only a few seconds off glaring, that blue grace light reflecting off the back of the douche's head. Hannah relaxed, but that frustrated set of shoulders didn't drop, and her lips stayed permanently twitched like she was seconds away from yelling.

Cas let his hand drop.

"Well I say we let 'em rot," Douche bag said, piping up from beside Dean after Tracy had finished, with a lazy grin and a general look around the room as if he expected everyone to start murmuring in agreement. "They couldn't be bothered helpin' us? I can't be bothered helpin' 'em."

"Are you _serious_?" Sam demanded, loud, outraged, turning all the heads in the room to him. People had been watching him since he'd arrived, but now they were really looking. "Are you _actually fucking serious_? How the _Hell_ did you become a Hunter with that kind of crap ass mentality? They didn't help me so I'm not helping them—oh yeah," Sam's voice was scathingly sarcastic. "Because, you know, the only reason to _ever_ do anything is as a way to pay off a _debt_." Sam shook his head, disbelieving, not backing down as the man stared at him, face hard as stone and twice as cold. "What is your _problem,_ dude?"

"Well, buddy boy, not that it's any o' all your damn business, but I happen to think that Huntin' for the good o' the community and then protecting lazy ass Hunters who just can't give a damn are more than an inch different," he spat. He gave a cruel, aggravating chuckle. "I ain't puttin' my life on the line for someone who wouldn't put it on it for me."

Sam was speechless, with no idea how to articulate how utterly _wrong_ his philosophy was. That the universe was not a system of checks and balances but eternal favours and wronging and somehow that had to even out at the end of the day, and that saving people, saving souls, at the end of all of this is _all that matters_. These missing hunters were apathetic and tired and rude, sure. Sam wasn't happy that they didn't come, and he was tired of the lack of respect the Hunting community paid every single one of its members, but that didn't mean that they deserve to be cut off. That didn't mean that they deserve to _die_.

"So we let them _die_ ," Dean said for Sam, and Sam had never been so thankful for his big brothers unwavering support in everything he did than he was in that moment.  He gave a dry chuckle, darker and scarier than the one the man had given. "Yeah, that fucking follows."

"Mind your tongue, boy," the man muttered.

"Leave the kids alone, Timothy," a woman, tough as nails and closer to Sam and Dean's age than those of John's generation.

"And why is that, _Mandy_?" He sung her name like it was a joke. Sam's hands itched with the urge to clutch him and throw his sexist, patronizing, uncompassionate ass out onto the road.

Mandy just tightened her lips and didn't answer.

"Timothy raises a good point," the old man at the front called them to order quickly. And just like that the conversation was over, and Sam _still_ really want to punch something. Really, _really_ wanted to punch something. Or more specifically, someone. "But we can't leave our friends alone out there. Tracy raises a good idea. We're too few and they're too many that we can't just leave 'em out in the cold—"

"Why the Hell not?" If Timothy knew he was overstepping his boundaries, it didn't show on his outraged, sun lined face. "What do we owe _them_?"

"They've saved hundreds of people," Sam said through gritted teeth. "Hunters are important. We can't just let them die."

"If we can protect the Hunters to the best of our abilities, then the monsters will be unable to make a purchase, take risks and therefore be taken more easily," Hannah snapped, staring at Timothy with unbridled hatred. "You _fool_."

"I thought that this was a _hunters_ meeting," Timothy didn't even look at Hannah to answer her. "Who let the damn monsters in?"

"They're leading angels in a reforming Heaven," Sam snapped, but of this he had no support. None of the other hunters seemed happy at all that Cas and Hannah were honorary members of the super secret cigar club. "They're trying to help us."

"Hm," Mandy said, slight but disapproving, met by a few other huffed agreements.

"We assure you that we are here to help," Cas told them all a little nervously, and making the situation if not worse, then a little more awkward.

"Don't worry chuckles," Timothy smiled at Cas without friendliness, without happiness. He was so bitter, so jaded and sad. Sam hated him, but he had to wonder what his life had been like to lead him to be like this. He had to wonder if there was any empathy to be had for the tired, sick Hunter who wandered the land giving and giving until he decided he wouldn't give anymore until someone gave. "If we were kicking out monsters, then your two 'hunter' friends would be the first to go."

Sam and Dean drew up very still.

Dean's voice was crisp, eyes a shielded unrelenting dagger of anger. "Excuse me?"

And because Timothy did just not fucking know when to quit, he grinned out at Dean. "Aw, Dean, you gotta've heard the stories. You know the ones about little Sammy over there," he nodded to Sam and Sam had to take a step back, had to wince, his head hazy and lost and he felt this awful, curling ball in his stomach that consumed and consumed at him until there was nothing left. "About what exactly is in his blood."

Sam looked down and didn't say anything. Nothing at all. The trials and Gadreel and all the good he'd done, it didn't matter in the end.

Because no matter what path he took, he would always just be the Boy with the Demon Blood.

"I'd watch your mouth, asshole," Dean warned him lowly, glaring at Timothy, hands balled white into fists by his side. "And I'd watch it _fast_."

"Or what?" Timothy snorted. He nodded over to the angels. "You'll pit the dogs on me? No? Maybe Angels are a little too main menu for you. Maybe you'll call u one of your demon friends." He was looking at Sam again, and every word was another thousands steps back and a tornado of grief and regret and _it's all my fault it's always been all my fault and Dean knew and my brother and my father and my fault my fault my fault fault fault_ —

"Pick one of the ones that Sammy boy's been screwin'."

There was a horrified, apprehensive silence. Sam couldn't be bothered to figure out why the dude leading the discussion hadn't stepped in before now (Hunters solve things like 'real men', duh, Sam) or why the room felt fit to burst with anger and emotion and turmoil.

All he could feel was that old shame that he fought so hard to bury under work and drinking and constant, tiny distractions rising up, consuming his soul.

Dean stared at him for a moment, and then in a strong, decisive movement, punched him across the jaw. The crack of knuckles against bone sounded out clear and precise through the room. Sam watched as in synch everyone flinched back and watched Dean with wide, wide eyes.

Dean turned to the rest of the group, nearly growling, Timothy stumbling back and clutching his cheek, swearing and swearing and _glaring_ as much as he could from Dean to Sam and then across the faces who were watching them in a sort of stunned silence. "Any other son of a bitch got a _damn_ problem with my brother?" He turned again, avoiding Sam's eye and looking out to the other half of the group. "With my only goddamn _family_?"

There was no answer, just a long satisfying silence punctured by the sounds of Timothy crying out in pain. He seemed to finally get the message to shut his damn trap.

"Don't heal him," Sam told Cas, loud enough that the group would know that he said it, that he had control over this invincible creatures. That these angels _might_ have healed him, that they _might_ have diminished his pain, but it was _Sam_ who told them not to, _Sam_ who held the power here. Cas was all too happy to comply.

Hannah was the one who answered though, blue eyes flashing with a deep satisfaction. "Don't worry, there's no chance of that."

"Well?" Dean demanded again, turning again. His breathing was a little heavier than usual, his eyes wide and mad and so, _so angry_. " _Well_?"

"Here," Sam placed a hand on Dean's back, and he guided his brother through the staring hunters, passed Tracy Bell's white, awestruck face and the MC's numb, astounded one. Sam led Dean out through the front of the house and into the fresh, quiet air of countryside Colorado.

A low murmuring started within the room, rising from the back and coming down through the hunters until it's a slow buzz. It didn't get much further than that, though, because Hannah cleared her throat.

Cas's eyes were wide when he watched her, watched her narrow her eyes in determination and enraptured the entire room with the tiniest of movements.

"Hi," Hannah smiled. It wasn't pleasant, and it wasn't angelic in the traditional way, but the way it inspired fear was almost fitting for the new image of Angels as they really were. "I'm Hannah. I'm the second in command in Heaven. I've led more successful assaults throughout my life than humanity has as a whole. And I'll be leading this damn discussion from here on."

She took no one rising up and objecting as a good ahead.

"Right," she straightened and looked across the room. "Firstly, _he_ has to go."

She didn't look at him, or point at him, or make any indication of who she was talking about. But everyone knew, and Cas watched with carefully greedy eyes as Timothy took the walk of shame, still clutching his probably broken cheekbone and failing to balance holding his face together and walking with a straight, proud spine.

* * *

"What an _asshole_!" Dean yelled, angry and frustrated, wishing he could lash out on something, but all that was there was Sam and Sam is good and hurting and oh God, he _did not deserve that_.

How _dare_ he? How _dare he_? Sam. Sammy, hanging on but barely at all, Sammy so strong and so desperately _trying_. Dean knew that all of this would be just _eating_ at him. He _knew_ that the Demon Blood issue would never go away. He knew that when his brother died and woke up in Heaven it would _still_ be a _fucking_ surprise because _Sam Winchester does not think he deserves to be saved_.

"Dean..." Sam tried, but there was nothing to say. All he had was agreement and hatred and so much hurt that he almost felt like keeling over, lying down and giving up. But he'd learnt a long time that every time you didn't cry when you wanted to, and every time you pushed on when you felt like dying, you just grew a little stronger.

Sam wasn't strong enough yet.

" _No_ , Sam," Dean interrupted him, turning to his brother with a heaving chest. "No. That was..." His eyes were wild and he felt that irrational pulling urge to find some way to wipe Sam's mind of what had just happened, for there to be some way for Sam to just _not know_ that people hated him. "You didn't _deserve_ any of that shit, man. We've been over and over that crap ever since you did it, and Hell, man..." Dean shook his head and Sam felt the tears welling, felt the emotion building and building within him when Dean looked at him, all desperate and wide eyed and just so damn _Dean_. "If _I_ could forgive you, then _they_ should. And I'm a goddamn stubborn bastard."

Sam cracked a smile but ducked his head when he felt the tears, pushing and pushing, all the stress and the anger and the betrayal and just _all of it_ threatening to consume him, overtake him. He couldn't carry this on his own, it was too much.

It was too much.

Sam shrugged a little. "Well, I guess he was sorta—"

" _No_ ," Dean cut him off harshly. "No. We're not doing this Sammy, you will _listen_ to me."

Sam looked up, surprised. "Dean—"

" _No_ ," Dean snapped again, with equal fever, equal venom. "Hear me now, ok, Sammy? And if you just _listen_ to this, then you don't needa listen to _anything_ I say ever again? Ok? Ok?"

Sam gave a quick, hurried nod, watching his brother with wide, staring eyes.

Dean took a step closer, like too magnets attracting the other. He reached up and caught Sam's jacket in his fingers, his brothers hand pressing through the fabric onto Sam's skin. Sam could feel the heat, could remember every time Dean had hugged him or caught him or pressed his hand against Sam. He could remember his brother and a long string of meaningful but ultimately broken promises, hand on his back at Jessica's funeral, remember bursting out with heaving breaths when he thought about Lucifer or his soul or their _Dad_ , remembers just him, and Dean, and gunpowder and leather and old music and _family_.

"None of that was your fault," Dean said, though his voice was a little weaker, though his eyes were tired and longing for an end. But sincere, and _sorry._ "I know I ain't always treated you right about that, I know I never say this sorta crap, but Sam..." Dean tightened his fingers, and Sam forced himself to look up and into Dean's probing eyes. "Sam I _promise_." Sam let his eyes close, les his face fall into familiar, sad grooves. "None of this, _none_ of it, was your fault." Sam could hear him, and remembering the promise he gave, he really, _really_ listened. "We were screwed over by fate, by destiny, by _everything_ , little Brother."

Dean's voice was almost soft, so far dropped from his roar of outrage after Timothy and the rest of the Hunters. Sam opened his eyes and saw Dean as he really was, as the tiredly determined boy he'd always really been.

Death stared Dean in the face most days, and every single time Dean just stared _right_ back.

"Sammy?"

Sam nodded and averted his eyes.

"I made you promise," Dean reminded him. "It's not your fault, ok?"

Sam swallowed heavily. "Yeah."

The seasons thundered beneath the earth and above the brothers the sky was a hazed blue, the clouds rolling across the sun in the early spring pure fresh air. Dean let go of Sam's jacket but neither felt as if they could move. Sam ran over the words again and again in his head, making them intrinsic, making them law. His credo, his practise, his mantra, his truth, his _absolute_ truth.

Finally, _finally_ , Dean broke the silence. With a wide, devil-may-care grin and just the thing that'd make Sam laugh. " _Yeah_? 'Yeah'? Seriously Sammy? What are you, a teen girl on her facebook page?"

They both pretended that Sam's voice wasn't shaky, wasn't thick with the tears he'd bitten back. "Honestly Dean, I'm surprised you even know what the Hell Facebook is."

They fell quiet again, but Sam nodded his head to the house. "D'you wanna go back in? We could at least see what they come up with before we decide whether to jump ship."

Dean nodded, but he laughed. "Sammy, I don't reckon that with Hannah as pissed as she was that anyone really got their constitutionally given democratic input."

"Thank God for that," Sam muttered, and the door swung shut behind them, cutting off the outside world and the conversation with a satisfying _crunch_.

* * *

The next morning, there was a chill in the air, and it had nothing to do with Hannah's kill at the meeting last night. Cas had described it to them, starry eyed and staring at his friend like she was the most amazing thing in the world. That she'd strode to the front, took over and insisted that Timothy leave. That he leave and not come back.

And so far, he hadn't. Which was good, which was really good, because Dean was pretty sure that if he saw the guy again, he'd have no choice but to punch him, and properly this time, sending his whole crappy package tumbling to the floor. Sam relaxed perceptively when Cas told them the news as well. There were other people who shared his views, but those people were less likely to act on them, less likely to remind Sam what a freak he was.

As far as Dean was concerned, he hated him as much as he hated Roy and Walt. And Roy and Walt had _killed_ them.

Hannah had managed to manipulate enough support for Tracy's plan that people had started drawing up rosters of hunters who they knew were still around before Bobby Singer's death and who would be listed in the book, and then started to allocate people to going and checking on them. Giving them the best chance they could against the vigilante monsters.

But the quiet the next morning was almost tangible, moved thick and slow through the air after all the hype and brightness of hope and just _maybe_ this would all work out. This would _not_ be there end. This generation of hunter would _not_ end here.

"What happened?" Sam mused out loud, voice hushed to meet the low level noise activity within the rest of the house. Dean knew that it was rhetorical, but he shrugged anyway.

"Maybe they miss their prince douche, heir to the Douche Republic," Dean muttered, running a hand over his face. It wasn't that, he knew it wasn't that, but he also knew that he would take as many opportunities as he could to bag the hell out of Timothy (lame name, asstruck) so help him God.

Sam rolled his eyes but gave a half huff of laughter, and Dean would take what he could.

Tracy appeared from the door in front of them, haggard and tired, with mused, scruffy hair and darkening circles under her eyes.

"Morning, Tracy," Sam said, in that heartbreaking measured voice he used around people who knew him, or more specifically, knew _of_ him in the harshest terms possible. Dean gave the girl a nod and looked back around the room. The quiet was getting to him, the pressing worry and panic. It felt like the house had moved from order to chaos overnight, but the evidence had yet to be found.

"Morning," she replied, testy, tired. She snapped her eyes from Dean to Sam. "Where are your angels?"

"Getting a message to their superior," Sam said, biting back a smile of the memory of Dean giving them a good hour long lecture on the Impala when they requested to go to the nearest stairway and get a message to Sariel about the developments. Even then he only handed over the keys begrudgingly, glaring, surly and moody, at Cas in warning as the angels left off in the early morning light.

Tracy snorted. "Why? So they can come down and kill us all at once?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You been paying attention? Heaven's run by the good guys now."

"It was _always_ supposed to be run by the good guys," Tracy bit back. Far be it for Sam to say, but he thought that she looked angry, sad. And it wasn't because of the Angels leaving or the Dick of the Day walking our per Hannah's request.

"Something wrong?" Sam finally found the balls to say, frowning as he looked at her. Tracy's face dropped, and she looked so close to tears. It was times like these that Sam remembered how young Tracy was, how vulnerable, how broken. In the few times he'd met the girl, she'd more than proved herself capable. But in that meeting, she'd also proved herself lonely and aching.

Tracy frowned. "Well, yeah." She looked at them both, eyes widening. "Oh my God, you don't know."

"Don't know what?" Dean demanded, his hatred for being kept out of the loop, especially at a time like this adding irritation atop his words. Sam could hear the subscript. _What the hell haven't you told us?_

Sam imagined Garth dead, Jody dead, Alex dead, Charlie and Dorothy, dead. He tried to remind himself that no one knew who they were, that with the exception of Garth, when Bobby had been alive they'd either locked their soul onto an evil witch for a lifetime or hadn't even been a proper hunter. That they would not have been listed.

"Gemma Fray," Tracy told them tiredly. She aimed for nonchalant, but it was that which gave it away. Tracy had known Gemma, and now she was dead. "Found dead last night."

"Aw, crap," Dean muttered. "I'm sorry, Tracy."

Tracy shrugged, holding her arms around herself. "Yeah, she was a good Hunter." She looked away, lost in thought. "I'm just worried about what this _means_ though."

Sam looked at Dean, who was just as lost as he was. Sam cleared his throat and turned to the girl. "Uh, sorry, what means?"

Tracy snapped back up and looked at them, confused. "Uh, you know? Gemma Fray? She only became a hunter late last year."

"Wait, _what_?" Sam demanded, feeling his blood run cold, an awful prickling feeling pushing out against the skin of his face. "She wasn't in Bobby's book?"

"Unless Bobby had a Ms. Cleo moment, no," Tracy shook her head. She narrowed her eyes. "You two honestly didn't know?"

"Don't know if you noticed Tracy," Dean said dryly, already pulling his phone out, already giving Sam a pointed look. Because if the monsters were gathering intel as they went they could be anywhere, if the monsters knew things that they didn't know that they knew they could be going after anyone, regardless of whether Bobby knew them. Regardless of _what_ Bobby knew them _as._ "But people kinda seem to hate us here."

Tracy gave a look as if she could see where they were coming from, but backed down when Dean venomously rolled his eyes.

"Where was she?" Sam asked quickly, trying _so_ hard not to imagine Jody's eyes, wide by unseeing, her throat ripped and her clothes all bloody. Or Alex, that young, _trying_ girl with a slashed throat and a hideous trail of oozing wounds all over her body. "Gemma? Where did she live?"

"I, uh," Tracy cast her mind back. "Jamestown, South Dakota. Why?"

Sam did the maths and took a sharp breath, ignoring her question and turning to Dean, who had his back to the conversation and his phone pressed to his ear while he waited of Jody to pick up. Jamestown to Sioux Falls was only four hours and a half, maybe five on a bad day and if the monsters were learning as they went, then Sam knew where they'd strike next.

Dean slowly moved his phone away from his ear and hit the end call button.

His voice was hollow when he turned back to his brother. "She's not picking up."

* * *

Thankfully, despite the three calls to Jody's landline, which had its cord cut, and Alex's cell, which was switched off, Cas's phone was answered after the first dial. Sam quickly explained the situation and Cas and Hannah didn't need to be asked to cut their conversation with Sariel short, bid her goodbye and race back to the house in the Impala.

Tracy watched the movement in the background, peeking out through the closed shades on the front room window and backing down whenever there was a chance that one of them would glance back to see her in the window.

Tracy turned when she felt the boards creak and the opening of the door let in a whoosh of air. Mandy, one of the female hunters who were nice to Tracy, stepped in with a tight smile.

"Hey," Tracy said nonchalantly, turning back to the window and looking out just as Sam slammed the boot shut and Hannah, the female agent of heaven, opened her door.

"Tracy Bell," Mandy sung, it was maternal and soft and comforting, but Tracy didn't lean into it. Really, she was more irritated by it. No matter what she did, no matter who she became or who she talked to or how many things she killed, she'd always just be little Tracy Bell. "What are you doin' in here?"

"Watching them," Tracy said, lips twitching a smile when she realised how creepy she sounded. "Well," she shrugged, rephrasing. "I'm... _ensuring_ that everything is kosher with the Winchesters jet setting off to Sioux Falls."

"Who's in Sioux Falls?" Mandy asked, frowning, coming to Tracy's side and looking out at the long black car as Sam, the final person to be still outstanding, pulled open the passenger door and looked around once before stepping in.

"Jody Mills," Tracy replied professionally. The name wasn't all that well known within the Hunting community, seeing as Jody was only a new Hunter, but she'd become something of a barstool story after taking in the ex-Vampire's blood whore and lure.

"Friend of theirs?" Mandy guessed peering out and watching as the Impala rumbled to life and was steered with ease and practise out the front gate. She turned bitter, lips puckering. "Good riddance."

Tracy frowned. She looked to Mandy, tilting her head and smoothing her hair back so that she could see Mandy in her entirety. "Excuse me?"

"The angels, and the Winchesters," Mandy nodded to the driveway, nonplussed. She shook her head disapprovingly. "They might be damn fine Hunters and better humans, but _hell_ if they ain't worth the effort."

"How do you mean?" Tracy asked, feeling oddly inclined to defend the Winchesters. There was something awfully endearing about them, something palpable and dependable and real. You wanted them to trust you, you wanted them to like you, to have your back. Sam had raised Lucifer but it didn't change the fact that he was kind and compassionate and every time he blinked at her it was like an apology. Or that Dean's utter _devotion_ to Sam, with all the ups and downs and undying loyalty; he was _enviable_. You _wanted_ your own Sam, and your own Dean.

Mandy gave her a measured look. "Oh, Hon. Don't become one of their corpses."

Tracy stilled and turned back to the window, imagining she could still see them, still see Cas and Hannah and the long stretch of the impala. Like she could see Sam pretending to hate the music and Dean belting along out of tune.  Death was an inevitability in their line of work, and having someone as strong as them behind you didn't feel like a weakness.

Mandy pressed on, sensing the reason behind Tracy's lack of response. "You see 'em and you see two boys with just enough strength to carry the world, yeah? You see 'em and you could imagine Dean takin' on a whole vampire army or Sammy there takin' a battalion of angels head on, but you gotta understand..." Mandy shook her head, lips tight. "You gotta understand that all that strength, all that devotion, it's to each _other_ , Tracy. They ain't got room for the friends they do got, let alone the friends that they have to make."

"I—"

"You just watch 'em," Mandy nodded out to the driveway again, and Tracy felt her stomach sink. "You watch their friends and you watch how they die. You watch how they'll burn down the world for each other, the world and every sorry bastard in it."

"They're not heroes," Tracy spelled out, words dry in her mouth, heart thudding uncomfortably in her stomach.

"No," Mandy shook her head. "That they definitely ain't. Sure they'll fight for their friends, for this lady cop and their angels and their friendly demons, but in the end, it comes down to them. To the two them."

Tracy bit her lip on the fact that she respected that. That she respected that they'd found a way to make it through the day without blowing their heads off, that they'd found balance where they still fought for anyone, for everyone. That they could have been hunting for so long and not turned up with Timothy's irritating as hell philosophy or the rest of the solo Hunters jaded, wary hearts. Because if she were in there position, if she had someone, someone who she'd punch someone in the face for, someone she'd die for, someone she'd _sell her soul for_ (she'd heard the stories of course) then she'd cling to that with everything she had.

That sort of love didn't come free, but it didn't come twice.

"Right," was all she said, and when Mandy looked away, she hoped in equal fever that she'd see them soon and that she would never, ever hear of them again.

* * *

They checked over the house twice, and both times they came up empty. Other than the initial scuffle, the askew chair and the broken lock, there was no sign of either Jody or Alex. The monsters didn't take hostages, and they left the bodies where they were. And while it wasn't good news, it was _hopeful_ news. Jody and Alex would have had to be missing for nearly 8 hours now, or at least their phones had been off and their lines cut since early that morning.

"Nowhere," Sam said, conflicted in the same way that Dean was. No sign of blood and no sign of bodies meant that they _might_ still be alive. "They're nowhere."

That 'might' lent a blow in favour of the entire _hope_ of the situation, and hell if Hope wasn't a damned and dangerous thing to have. Inevitable, inescapable, but there and there and _so so_ terrifying.

Dean gave a short nod and a small, assenting noise at the back of his throat.

Hannah and Cas charged back from the garage, where the boys had directed them to see if Jody and Alex would have taken off in the car. From the furiously determined look in Hannah's eyes, and the determined set of Cas's jaw, Dean could guess what had happened, and felt that spike of hope hit him again.

"No car," Hannah informed them, breathless. She drew up short beside Cas next to Sam and Dean saw her hand flex as if she was aching to reach for her angel blade. "And the door closes automatically after half an hour."

"So they've been gone for that long, but probably a lot longer," Sam said determinedly. He remembered walking in and feeling his faith in finding Jody and Alex alive and well take a hit when he saw the garage closed. It was too normal, too contrasting with the slightly ajar door, with the broken phone calls and all the information that pointed to the monsters charging down to Jody and Alex next. "We just have to figure out where the monsters would have chased them to."

"The cottage in the woods?" Cas suggested, turning to Dean and then to Sam. "Out of the way, she and Alex might be able to defend from there."

"Practically indefensible," Dean dismissed. "If the vampires had already caught onto their scent, Jody wouldn't have taken them to her place. She ain't gonna make that mistake twice."

The vampires tracking Jody down, the vampires taking Alex, turning Alex... no. Jody had learnt her lesson. There was a reason the people in horror movies died when they went into the woods, and while most of that was ignorance, the other half was the lack of support. The woods would be the monsters domain. Vampires, werewolves, ghouls, shifters; all of them had been placed at the scenes of the deaths when the hunters had gone over the police reports on the crime scenes. A half moon of vampire bites or a missing heart, blood and saliva combined off the fingerprints in the victims skin, the disgusting jelly like blobs of skin and flesh on the floor. They were all predators. They were all the kings of their domains. And in the forest, where a man was at his most vulnerable? There was no chance that Jody would risk it. No, she'd find somewhere else.

Somewhere out of the way, somewhere where she could protect the civilians but then also herself and Alex. Somewhere where there were people around, where there were people who could be called upon at the ultimate necessity.

A thought occurred to Dean, and it was almost too perfect, too obvious. Before the Bunker, where had they gone to feel safe? Where was the most particularly protected place in the region? Where was the house that he and Sam had helped defend _themselves_ on more than one occasion? Where they _knew_ that even lying in ruins, it was a safer bet than almost anywhere else in the country?

"Bobby," Sam breathed, just as Dean was about to voice it. Sam locked eyes with Dean, excitement and anticipation shared between them. "His house, do you think...?"

"As good of an idea as any," Dean agreed, trying to not smile when Sam gave him a sour, pointed look. He looked at Hannah and Cas, both of whom were watching the exchange with wide eyes. "You two ready?"

"Dean," Cas said, and Dean remembered Bobby. Remembered all the gruff Hunter and all the whiskey and warm hugs and the hearth and the home and the way the books were stacked to the ceiling. How his and Sam's beds weren't home yet but if they'd tried, if they'd stayed, they _could_ have been. He remembered Bobby's careful hands and his sacrifice and his poor, dead wife and _how much_ that old idiot had cared about them. "Are you?"

Dean avoided Sam's eyes, Sam's probing, knowing eyes and scoffed. "'Course. Think about who you're talking to."

 _I am_ , Cas's eyes seemed to say. _I am._

* * *

Jody and Alex pressed against the most stable wall of the most stable room of what had once been Bobby Singer's home. The walls were warded with salt and repelling symbols, but Jody knew it would only be a matter of time before they broke through, before they charged in and killed them both.

Alex, subconsciously or not, slid a little closer to her adoptive mother, trembling fingers digging into Jody's shirt. Jody pulled her close, letting Alex fold into her chest, holding her head softly and comfortingly onto her shoulder, letting her shake and breathe and swallow sobs.

"It's ok," Jody whispered to her. She cupped her hand around Alex's head— _Alex,_ her _daughter_ —and tried to slow her own breathing so that Alex would have something to base her own on. Deep and thorough, calming and neutral and kind. "We'll be ok."

"How?" Alex's voice was muffled and wet into her shirt, and Jody shut her eyes, forced them closed, and tried to come to terms with the hopelessness of their situation.  They had no weapons, no back up, no reason to be accidently saved by someone stumbling across them. The room was bare but for a few pieces of weathered furniture and the odd scattering of burnt or neglected photos.

Jody thought she saw one of Bobby and the boys, the Winchesters. Every time she thought of them she had to swallow her regret. She could have _believed_ them and gotten Alex _out_ and saved them _both_ but here they were, because she had been careless. Here they were about to die, because she hadn't been bothered to concern herself with the politics of being a hunter.

"Because we always do, Baby," Jody murmured comfortingly, rocking slightly, opening her eyes and staring off unseeingly as she felt Alex's breathing beginning to slow, her heart beginning to calm. She cracked a smile, but there was no heat to it, no life, and she could feel how bitter and wrong it was. "'Cause if we can't find a way then no one could."

There's a bang and a yell of frustration, and Alex just clings on tighter, like they're the last people left alive in the whole world.

* * *

Sam recognised the werewolf right off, and felt for his gun at the back of his pants. The monster had his arms crossed and was leaning against a tree that had suffered burn damage but was regrowing over a bunch of old cars. He was scowling at the house, focusing on the one room that was still all together.

The wind pushed against them, lifting their scent off the way that they'd come.

"Jody and Alex must be in there," Sam breathed to Dean, who nodded and looked at Cas and Hannah, both of who shared in that sentiment. Sam licked his lips and prepared his gun. "When I shoot the werewolf, you're going to need to cut down the next two quite quickly, or else they might try to run and just regroup with whoever's still out there."

"You reckon you can be light footed, Legolas?" Dean glanced at Cas, and the angel, hard faced and determined, gave a certain nod.

Hannah looked a little more apprehensive, but whatever doubts she had was overshone by confidence. "Of course."

"Alright you two, go," Sam ushered them off and they melted off by the cars, darting from cover to cover, utterly silent and entirely in synch. In all truth, Sam had never really seen Cas fight _with_ Angels before. Alongside them rather than against them. He knew that Dean had, charging through Heaven with the damning mark of Cain on his arm and the legions of Metatron pressing back against ever advance. But Sam hadn't.

Sam swallowed. Because he'd been dead. Because he'd asked Dean to kill him.

Heavy freakin' stuff.

"You take McCall, I'll go for wherever the shifter is," Dean muttered to Sam. He paused and pulled back. "I ever tell you how much I _hate_ shifters? Remember that time a Shifter impersonated me?"

 _No, Dean. I have no recollection of one of the most personal cases we've ever taken._ Instead Sam just sighed heavily and nodded. "Sure, I remember. Becky and her brother, just after I left Stanford."

"Yeah," Dean nodded, still frowning. "That sucked."

Comparatively, the case was not their suckiest, but it was far from their easiest. So Sam had to just nod again and murmur agreeing phrases.

"And then there was that Shifter in the bank," Dean continued, looking half way to counting off his fingers. "Remember? When everyone thought we were criminals?"

"People still do think that, I'm pretty sure," Sam said idly.

"And then—"

"Dean," Sam cut him off and looked harshly to the front. He could see Hannah and Cas, crouching in position with their angel blades glinting off the mid afternoon sun. By his reckoning Jody and Alex shouldn't still be alive. But the monsters were here, still here, still agitated. Presumably they were just waiting Alex and Jody out until either they were forced to leave to gather food and water, or one of them figured a way around Bobby's incredibly ridged trapping system. "Get ready."

Dean nodded and prepared his weapon, pointing it out and aiming it across the parking lot to where the other uninteresting, unobtrusive man was. Across the way, Sam thought he could make out the form of a woman who looked vaguely familiar. Like he might have seen her in a photo or in passing one time. Gemma.

"Dean, look, the ghoul," Sam pointed out Gemma, and Dean narrowed his eyes like he felt the same awkward flush of recognition.  Because damn it if this wasn't another reason for hope, to think that they were both still alive and crouching, hiding, in the house that Bobby Singer had lived in. Maybe the ghoul just hadn't been hungry, or maybe this one just liked to wait for the blood to cool before munching, but that dangerous hope that sprang down through Sam's bloodstream couldn't help it. To think that maybe, just maybe, today everyone would win.

Dean caught on to what he was getting out, but he made no mention of it other than a barely muffled sigh of relief. "Hate Ghouls too."

"At least there are no witches," Sam commented, checking his clip and resetting his gun, settling his eyes down the sight and staring through it at the werewolf's head.

"Amen to that."

Sam fired a fraction of a second before Dean did, and his monster fell to the ground, head cracked back with the force from the shot. Neither Dean nor Sam moved to check that the other had hit their mark, they just moved together around the piles of cars and through to the house. Across in front of them Hannah was cutting through a vampire, her blade spinning in her hand as she barred her teeth and slashed across the monsters throat, blood and a dark blue light emitting from every cut struck from the sword.

Cas's face was less expressive, but his moves were no less deadly. The ghoul had leapt up, wearing Gemma's face and holding a hunting knife like it had been born to fight. The ghoul kicked and spun but Cas was faster, just so much faster. He slammed the attacks down and the rebound caught the ghoul in a turn of recovery rather than offence. Cas stole his opening the moment he created it, the moment it became available. He stuck his angel blade through the ghouls throat and wrenched it out, watching as it fell to the ground.

There was little more movement, but Sam didn't doubt that more monsters were waiting around, perhaps scoping the place out for hidden entrances while the others guarded the entrance. They didn't have time for that, and together they moved to the doorway.

Sam felt the crunch of old charcoal under his feet when he stood before the rackety wooden door that had kept out bloodthirsty monsters for the better part of the daylight hours. If they couldn't get through it, then Sam doubted that kicking it or picking it would do anything in the way of making things easier.

"Cas?" Dean offered, gesturing to the doorway impatiently. He called out to the room, almost embarassed. "Jody? Alex? It's Dean! We're getting Cas to open to door, don't freak out."

Dean nodded at Cas to proceed as if he'd completed the first imperative phase to their operation, and Sam had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes so far back that he'd see his brain. He made do with just exchanging bemused looks with Hannah, who found the Winchesters exploits in self-importance rather amusing.

Cas pressed his hand, glowing grace bright blue, onto the handle. The metal shook, burnt red hot and then, the lock clicking, swung open. The room was dark, but it was far from complete. Cracks in the walls allowed for light to sneak in and catch across the room like shots of sun, straight like the path of a bullet.

Off in the furthest corner, Sam could see Jody and Alex sitting, huddled close to each other, watching each of the four enter the room with probing, unfriendly eyes.

"Jody?" Sam asked, placing his gun back into his jeans and staring as they slowly but surely detangled and faced the two angels and two hunters with a wary apprehension.

"We're us, we promise," Dean said, holding up his hands and then pulling out a silver knife. He flashed it to them both before slicing across his forearm.

"You know you could just use the angel blade," Alex said, her voice tired and hoarse, and she looked as if she was about to faint, standing up there and just swaying. "It tests for just about everything."

Everyone watched her with wide, and in Hannah and Cas's situation, confused eyes.

She frowned. " _What_?"

Dean shook his head and focused on Jody. "How many were there?"

"Six," Jody said decisively, one arm supporting Alex as they made their steps to stand closer. "How many did you get?"

"Four," Dean answered, tense, jumpy, looking over his back as Jody swallowed.

"Don't worry, Dean," Hannah assured him, twirling the blade in her hand. "Cas and I will take care of them."

Jody blinked and stared at Hannah. "And who's this one?"

"Oh, uh, Jody, Alex," Sam spread his hand out to present Hannah. "This is Hannah, second in command in Heaven. Hannah, this is Jody and Alex."

Hannah smiled, a genuine smile that brightened her eyes and lit up her lips. "It's nice to finally meet you. The boys and Castiel speak very highly of you both."

Jody smiled at the praise. "And they of you."

"Look," Alex said, cutting out through the pleasantries. "Can we get this over and done with? Because I am starving, and thirsty, and would _kill_ to go to the toilet. So I really wanna get home, but I also really want to kill the monster that did this."

"Choose one," Jody said, in her 'Mom' voice, and Sam hid a smile at their easy relationship with a cough. "Vengeance or toilet and grilled cheese, which one's it gonna be?"

Alex glared, surly. "Well, grilled cheese obviously."

Jody's smile was soft and fond. "Fair enough. Let's go."

* * *

Hannah and Cas never did find the two other monsters, the last who had made up of the group that had threatened Hunters in a direct way that they hadn't felt in years. Things hunting the things that were supposed to be the things being hunted in the first place, but had adapted to the things that hunted.

It was almost confusing in its simplicity. Hunters had crawled their way to the top of the pecking order, and the ancient monsters who'd claimed it first wanted it back.

It was worrying to Sam, that it only took six monsters driven and obsessed with the same goal to threaten and worry hunters like it had. Hunting alone was unhealthy, he knew that, and if anything, Timothy's bitterness and snark proved it. People called loving someone in this line of work a weakness, your ultimate liability, but Sam disagreed. The only way that he and Dean had gotten so far was because they were so desperately clinging to each other.

Maybe it was a weakness. They'd both died for each other, after all. They'd both ended up monsters despite the others constant support. They'd both lost their faith in the other.

But in the end they always rebounded and found each other. Sam would find Dean lost, blind, deaf, and Dean would do the same; like magnets seeking the opposite ends.

"And it makes you wonder about human unity," Jody had said that night, in the quiet of the home that she let the boys stay in, with the lights dim and the angels taking a bus (Dean laughed, but Cas's hurt expression cut it off pretty quickly) back to Lebanon to make the trip back up to Heaven. "If the community had been better connected, better together, there's no _way_ only six monsters could have been a threat."

"Hunter's ain't ever gonna get their heads outta their asses," Dean had commented into his second glass of scotch. Sam heard the bitterness in there, but also a deep yearning to be proved wrong.

"I dunno," Sam disagreed with his brother, staring off, the condensation from the neck of his beer heating and dispersing on his fingers. "Maybe this'll be the wakeup call they need."

"Maybe," Dean agreed, taking a swig of alcohol and Sam just _knew_ he was thinking about Timothy and all the Hunters like him.

Three days later, Tracy Bell called Sam's phone and told him about a website she'd been thinking of, where Hunters could keep in touch and share information on the ways to take care of things, ways to make the world a better place. Create that feel of community and unity that was desperately missing from their line of work ever since the vast majority of them had died during and after the intended apocalypse.

Which Sam was working on not blaming himself for, returning again and again to the promise he made to Dean.

Sam had told Tracy that he thought it was a great idea. He wanted to tell her more, that he was sorry her family had died and it was his fault and just that he was _so sorry_ that all this had come of her. And he wanted to warn her away from him and his brother but he didn't know how to say it without sounding like a second rate bond girl, and before he could even take a stab she'd finished off the conversation and had hung up the phone.

Dean and Sam left Sioux Falls for the Bunker the next day, remembering the wreckage of Bobby's house, remembering Bobby, remembering the panic room and Jody and Alex and everything that had ever happened to them in or about that house. The house that the boys almost called home, the man who they _had_ called a father.

The Impala raged off down the highway.


	20. Family Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To save everything that they've achieved in the present, Dean and Sam must go back in time to try and save their grandmother, Millie.

It started with little things.

"Hey, Dean, do you..." Sam trailed off, standing dead in the centre of the doorway and frowning. He looked out and saw Dean waiting, his brothers eyes wide with expectation.

"Yeah?" Dean was undisturbed, casual, even. But there was something wrong, something eating at Sam's brain. He'd forgotten, he'd _forgotten_ what he was going to say and it was _worrying._

"I, uh, forgot," Sam said, letting his hands rest by his sides, his posture sagging, his mouth turning into the slightest of frowns. The absence of the words didn't press at Sam; he didn't think that they'd been ground breaking. Perhaps they were even left better off unsaid. But unsaid they stayed, and unsaid they'd be.

Sam shook his head, bemused.

"Ah, yeah, I hate it when that happens," Dean grimaced, shooting his brother a look and returning back to Sam's laptop, where he'd been figuring out the pattern of a string of murders and attacks in southern Virginia. "Anyway—"

The little things began to accumulate, and soon it was two days before Sam remembered to eat, three before Dean remembered to sleep. Sam stood despondent and frowning out the front of his room, clutching his towel and trying to remember, for the life of him, the direction of the shower.

But these little things were only little things. And it was only from an outsiders perspective that you'd see anything wrong or accumulative about them. Sam thought he was tired, reasoning over and over again that it was just this time of year. It was just his frame of mind at the moment. He'd seen Ruby only a matter of weeks ago. He thought he deserved a little R&R.

Dean thought it was the guilt, or the crippling, itching need to be drinking. He thought it was the way Sammy looked sometimes, like he was trapped inside a cage; a tiger accepting of its doomed fate. Neither mentioned it to the other; in true Winchester style.

* * *

Dean woke up gasping. Dean was shocked and shaking, and surprised out of his mind. The nightmare situation was hardly new, but what _was_ new was that he'd woken himself up from it.

He grappled with the sheets and rested a hand on top of his chest, trying to calm his racing heart, his heaving breaths. The world slowed down and he tucked his eyes closed, holding his forearm over his shut lids, just trying to _breath_.

This one had been bad. And _old_. God, when was the last time he'd dreamt about his mother burning on the ceiling? All the other nightmares seemed to have crammed themselves over it in his brain. All of the terrible things he'd seen begging for preference.

_I try my best to be brave._

"Shut up," Dean muttered to himself, voice weary and rough with sleep. He made himself go through the motions he did whenever he had a really bad nightmare. He let his hand rest on his heart and counted the beats. _1_ and then _2_ and then _3_. There was something so calming, feeling yourself living.

And then he went through it, went through the things that made him happy. He was in the impala and he was racing down the road, raising hell and harrowing with a vendetta against heaven, but in that moment, everything was ok. Because he was sitting in his _damn_ car with Sam, shotgun and grinning. The windows were down and the good ole' American countryside sang past along the wind.

He was with his father, and John was smiling at him, clasping his hand on his shoulder and telling him that he was _good_ and _thanks son_ and _you did good tonight_. And though it was riddled with shame and desperation it was still happy. Because John was smiling and he was smiling and for once the world was taking a back seat. For once the world was giving them a chance to just _be_.

And then his mother, all—

Dean's eyes flashed open and his heart picked up its pressure. _1_ and _2_ and _3 4 5_ —

His mother, she was... she was what? Her blonde hair, he could see that, all shimmering and perfect, and a placating, cool palm on his cheek. He sought for her voice but all he could remember was something tinny and imperfect. He sought her cooking and her laugh but nothing came, and anything that did was generic and confusing and just _wrong_. His mother? Her _face_. How could he have forgotten? He'd just had a nightmare about her, _just_ seen her burn to death on Sam's nursery's ceiling.

Dean sat roughly up, letting the hand that had been keeping time with his heartbeat skip over to the desk lamp, switching it on and with blinking, shocked eyes, reached for the picture he kept beside himself.

He grasped it and held it, and looked down at it. The relief stole through his body instantaneously. There she was, with her blonde curls and clever eyes and wide, smiling mouth. He could hear her voice now, calling his name, telling him to kiss Sammy goodnight; sultry and quiet as she whispered a lullaby over his bedspread. And her pie, her apple pie, that tasted like home and mom and little baby Sammy on the way or just arrived.

He held the picture over his heart and lay back into bed. He didn't turn the light off. He didn't wake Sam. He closed his eyes and _promised_ himself that he'd remember.

* * *

"...and then of course Hannah—"

"Who?" Sam yawned, cutting Cas off and downing a cup of coffee in one go. He rubbed the sleep out of the corners of his eyes with the heel of his hand and Cas frowned at him, insulted.

"Hannah? The angel? You don't remember?" Cas watched Sam, but there was no immediate recognition, or clever smile as he pulled down the curtains around his terribly constructed joke. Nothing.

Sam shrugged, setting his mug down, unperturbed and a little put off by Cas's intensity. "I must'a never met her. She nice?"

Cas frowned. "Sam, are you joking?"

Sam scoffed, pouring himself another cup of coffee. "No?" He finished and sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Sorry, can this wait a minute? I can't function until I got at _least_ one of these in me."

Cas frowned and tilted his head. "At _least_ one?"

"There an echo in here?" Sam remarked, frowning Cas as if _he_ was the one acting crazy. "Everything ok, Cas?"

* * *

"We've sent Angels down to help excavate Bobby's house," Cas told Dean a little later, staying around while the brothers organised themselves through the morning. Dean was bent over the front of his seat and tying his laces.

"Uh, why?" Dean frowned, looking up at Cas, a little furiously. "You working for _them_ now? The _Angels_?"

Cas tilted his head, puzzled. "Uh, yes?"

Dean stood up so violently that the chair fell over. "The _Hell_?" He was gritting his teeth, glaring the angel down with all his might. "So what, not only do you friggin' _betray_ me and Sam, after all the shit you've _already_ done, but you take it out on Bobby as well?"

"Dean—"

"Get out," Dean gritted his teeth.

Cas stared at him. " _Dean_."

Dean's expression faded a little, and then completely. He was staring, staring and staring at Cas with such an absent expression that Cas almost flinched back, almost went over to shake Dean into consciousness.

As if all of a sudden, Dean shocked himself into waking. "Huh? Yeah?"

And Cas knew definitely that something was not right.

* * *

When Sam answered the door, there was a man standing there who he'd never seen before. This was surprising, sort of, because from what he could tell, super secret bunker hideouts are super secret for a reason. The fact that anyone but he and Dean could know about it is confusing.

But then again, a lot had been confusing lately. _Where_ exactly they were, where he left his phone, who all the contacts on Dean's list were, where half the scars on his body had come from, what the old, black chevy, used and well-loved, was doing in the middle of the garage.

Dean seemed to stare at it forlornly for a moment, before slowly walking away, and Sam had to wonder, yet again, what exactly was going on.

But he didn't really _care_. All the ignorance, all that blessed self-aware ignorance was addicting. There was nothing weighing him down, no memories to conjure up in his most desperate moments. Each night he fell into a dreamless sleep and felt at rest and foggy with waking. There was a haze that he walked through, that Dean walked through. And all that they could remember was each other.

"Sam," the man had a low voice, a pair of flashing blue eyes and a trench coat that layered on top of his suit. "Where's Dean?"

"Why the Hell would I tell you?" Sam frowned, glaring at the man and fingering the door as if threatening to slam it, trying to recall whether or not he usually responded to strangers with love or without trust. "Goodbye."

The man struck his arm out and stopped the door from opening, his face set grim and tired. He was worried, and for some reason that fluttered at Sam's chest. Who was this man? What the _hell_ was going on?

That ignorance, that slow, turning emptiness, finally ached. Finally pressed its need to be filled.

"Hey! You can't—" Sam tried to bat away the man's hand as he moved it up to his forehead, but it was too late. Blue eyes burned a bright white and the two fingertips pressed lightly to the area of skin just above—

Sam's eyes. He flung them open and, gasping, looked to Cas with horror.

"Oh my _God_ ," he breathed, holding his chest and Cas's shoulder for stability. He took another set of heaving breaths. "Oh my God. Where's Dean? What's happening to me? To us?"

Cas's face had crumpled with concentration when he'd been healing Sam, but now it had returned to its worried, grim set. "I think I have some idea, but we need to sort it out quickly. Because you're not fixed forever, and at the rate you two are going, you won't even _exist_ by tomorrow."

* * *

"Do you remember—"

"Probably not," Dean answered, probably in bad taste, with a smirk across his face and his arms tucked around each other, crossed against his chest. The library cast itself as a backdrop, the layers of books lining the walls and heaving in piles along the floors. "But go on."

Cas decided to ignore it, sighing instead of rolling his eyes and turning his attention to Sam rather than try to deal with Dean. "Do you remember before the Apocalypse, when you and Dean were sent back into the past because Anna was trying to kill your parents?"

Sam cleared his throat, eyes darting, uncomfortable. "Pretty hard to forget."

Cas remembered something about Sam dying there, and decided not to press it. He went on with his story. "It's happening again. Someone has gone back in time to kill your ancestor. Gone back in time to ensure that neither of you are ever born."

"Doesn't Michael guard over the Winchester and Campbell line?" Sam frowned.

"Of course," Cas said, almost offended. "The birth of the two of you was paramount. But it wasn't planned beyond your parents. Once it was deemed that the children of John and Mary _could_ be the vessels of Lucifer and Michael, it was only _then_ that you were allowed."

"Time travel?" Dean asked dryly, sighing, crossing his arms over his chest, unimpressed. "Really? Again?"

"I know that it's..." Cas pursed his lips. " _Less_ than popular with you two, but..." He shrugged, tugging at his jacket almost self consciously. "You'd be lucky to get 24 hours at the rate of decay that you are facing. And this is important. If you don't save her, you could both die."

"Who's 'her'?" Sam asked, frowning. "Deanna? Wasn't she a hunter?"

"Yes, and far too experienced for anything to go after," Cas nodded. "They would have wanted an easy target, someone unassuming, someone not even the most fore thinking of angels would have cared over."

Dean's eyes were clear with understanding when he locked eyes with Cas. "Millie."

Cas dropped his voice, his tone almost childish, as if he'd just been admonished by his parent. "Indeed."

"So we have to go back and save our grandmother," Dean summarised, running a hand along the back of his head and looking up to the ceiling with a long-suffering sigh. "You know, some Grandma's just need help in choosing which Old Person home to die in."

"Dean," Sam muttered, shooting his brother a pointed look. Dean didn't press the point, but rolled his eyes anyway at Sam's sensitivity. He clapped his hands on his knees, bounced them off and stood up.

"I think this one calls for a drink," he announced, smiling brightly. Sam immediately looked away, immediately darkened. "Can I get you folks anything?"

"Sit down, Dean," Cas said warningly, glaring. Dean looked at him for a moment like he might challenge Cas, but then threw his arms up, sported a mocking grin and sat back down on his seat with a sigh.

Not one of the three took it upon themselves to break the bleak silence that fell afterwards. They'd need to be travelling back soon, need to be risking their lives soon. Sam couldn't help remember that bubble of ignorance, that cloud, that impossible haze. He got Dean's drinking thing, he understood the attraction of forgetting everything against remembering everything. Because sure, there were a few good memories dotted through his mind, but they shone through shadow. He wished he could say that he'd give up every good memory just to get rid of every bad one. But he couldn't.

He'd relive Azazel a million times if it meant that he could recall, to the detail, the way Jess had felt to kiss.

"What I don't get is why we managed to get some warning on this thing," Sam finally said lowly, talking more to the floor and his chest then the two others standing in the room. "Last time the past was altered, we didn't even notice."

"Makes you wonder, huh?" Dean mused, dark and sour and if Sam didn't know better, _bitter_. He _wanted_ to go back. He _wanted_ to be in that perfect cacoon where all he knew was Sam. And all Sam knew was Dean. Where the world was an entire mystery and every turn was a stab into the dark.

On his lap, Sam's fists tightened and his skin turned white across the bones of his knuckles. Things weren't better when they were younger. Things were not better because they did not have their pick of nightmares to choose from. Sam was angrier and Dean was channelling Dad in all the ways that mattered and all the ones that _really_ didn't as well.

And they were still being played. Just because they didn't know it didn't mean that they weren't.

But there was no way to bring this up with his brother without sounding like the world's biggest idiot, so he just let it drop and let it fester.

"What?" Sam looked over.

"How many times the past has been changed and we just haven't noticed it," Dean said, almost wistfully. "Just think of all the different Presents that there could be."

Sam opened his mouth as if to contradict Dean, but then double guessed himself and frowned. His mouth closed and his folded his hands on his lap. Finally, he snapped, "Don't say crap like that."

Jesus Christ. Talk like that, that wistful, 'what if' was not helping things. It wasn't helping this case, and it definitely wasn't helping Dean's state of mind.

"Fate would not allow anything other than Heaven's explicit plan to be carried out," Cas assured them, inwardly doubting but deciding that if anyone deserved ignorance in the fluidity of time and the millions of different futures they were altering with every tiny decision they made, it was these two. Dean letting Sam's necklace fall into the bin, asking Pamela to seek out Cas's name and face, Sam tilting his head _just so_ and catching sight of their fathers journal. "This time we noticed because of the application and the result. Last time, the alteration had called for creation; Jo and Ellen, the thousands of ancestors of the Titanic passengers. This time, it calls for erasure. This is more difficult."

"Right," Dean said heavily, pushing his hand over his face and rubbing into his eyes. Sam watched him and kept his mouth shut. 'Right' summarised the entire problem reasonably well. "So, when does Sariel want us to hit the DeLorean?"

"As soon as possible," Cas said shortly. "Your state will deteriorate much faster than it did initially and we can't wait for that to happen. We can't even be sure that we'd be able to heal you again."

* * *

Sam clutched at the bag that was slung over his arm, and Dean watched as he checked over his pockets. The guns and phones would look out of place in the 40's, and while he saw the wisdom in leaving them both, he didn't like it. The guns wouldn't have an effect on the angel that had gone back in time anyway, but that didn't mean that he didn't feel bare and naked without it.

"Are you ready?" Cas asked, his voice low, eyes darting between them like at any moment they'd both snap back into their state of unknowing and just _look_ at him like they didn't know who he was.

Dean nodded for the both of them. "Yep, as we'll ever be."

Sam cleared his throat and dipped his head, fast and fleeting, in agreement. Dean didn't blame Sam for not wanting to go back. The last time they'd been pushed back had been when Dean had been forced into the 40's when Chronos had decided Dean was overdue a trip. That was hardly a good memory, and neither was when they'd gone back to protect their parents from Anna.

Now _that_ had been a knee-deep fiasco.

"Alright," Cas flexed his hand, as if he was nervous. "We've pinpointed Millie's death to be on the 26th of December, 1944, and you're going back to the 24th, so even if you don't save her by then, we'll be taking you back to now in the afternoon of the 26th. Understand?"

"Will there be any _us_ to bring back?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrows, adjusting the grip he had on his bag again. Dean cringed a little, he was so bitter. There never seemed to be an end, did it? The cycle continued and there was always a reason for the Winchesters to have never existed. No matter what. No _matter_ what. How many lives they saved or Souls they freed, how many apocalypses they prevented or demons they ganked.

There was repentance and there was no answer but for them to have died years and _years_ before. And the worst part was that Dean understood. The worst part was that if it wasn't them, if it was some other poor schmuck and his kid brother, then Dean wouldn't hesitate on doing the same.

Cas didn't answer Sam, just averted his eyes and did that thing where he picked at the cuff of his jacket.

Dean slid through the awkwardness of the moment. "Cas, now's as good of a time as any."

"Right," Cas nodded, professional, frowning with concentration. Dean drew closer to Sam, so that they stood shoulder to shoulder. He felt Sam shuffle next to him, as if wondering whether he should pull away or tighten their closeness even further. "Millie Armstrong lives in Kansas City in a house that she shares with her sister, Louise."

"Has she met Henry yet?" Dean asked, wondering if that would make it easier or harder to protect her. Perhaps they could appeal to Henry to help them, but then again, it was more likely that he'd attack them outright for knowing who he was than sitting down with them and listening to how Abaddon ruined everything he'd ever come to care about.

Cas gave him a steady look. "No."

"Huh," was all Dean said, trying again to figure out where that left them. At least now it was a lot easier to plan the plays and figure the players. There was him and Sam and Millie, and then there was the renegade angel with Heaven breathing down its back.

Cas reached out with his two fingers outstretched, eyes glowing blue, mouth tight with concentration. Dean kept his eyes open for as long as he could, and he swore, that the moment Cas's fingers first scraped their skin, he saw great skeletal wings ushering out the back of him, like trees with every leaf having been plucked off by the wind.

But he closed his eyes, and he and Sam disappeared.

* * *

"Get off the _road_ , asshole!" Someone yelled shrilly, their bike wheel shuddering on the rougher stones to the side of the road as they swerved to get around Sam, spreadeagled and dazzled on the side of the road. Sam watched them, clambering so that he was balanced on his elbows, legs outspread in front of him. The bike rider glared as she whizzed past, him, eyes fierce and glaring before she turned back to the road in front of her, helmetless head proudly boasting a head of rich brown hair, a wispy scarf more for decoration than warmth whipping along with the wind.

Sam glanced up when he felt a firm hand on his arm, and let the gravel crunch into the palm of his hand as he help Dean pull him up, swaying a little before he reached out and grabbed hold of one of the cars.

"Nice one," his brother smirked, watching as Sam flashed him a glare. It was bitterly cold, and Sam could feel it through the meagre fabric of his jacket. There was no snow yet, just the biting chill in the air that told them that it was on its way.

Sam allowed Dean to lead him off the road and looked around. From the front of the store he saw that there was a story about the Bombing of Manchester that had happened the day before, with a distorted picture of desecration and the ruins of some poor building in Manchester's centre.

"The war," Sam muttered, shaking his head to himself. He set his jaw and stared across at the newspaper. "Huh."

If he was to be honest, he'd never really considered what coming back to the 40's would entail other than them finding and saving their Grandmother and then themselves. He didn't even think about his clothes, or his hair, or his watch, or what life had been like. For the Irish Immigrants or the Black Americans or pretty much _everyone_.

"This is so weird," Dean muttered, grimacing and looking around. They two had only been to Kansas City a handful of times, and within those they hadn't gone much beyond the neighbourhood where whatever freaky deaths of the week were happening. But even if they'd immersed themselves deeper, Sam didn't think they'd be able to figure out where they were based on their surroundings now. Everything moved around them like an old photo come to life, and all that was missing was the veneer of dust and the stained filter of honey brown streaked over the top.

"Right?" Sam agreed. He looked around, wondering where would be a good place to begin hunting down Millie. "Where do you think we should start?"

"Our FBI badges are probably pretty redundant, right?" Dean wondered aloud. "So maybe just...askin' around?"

Sam nodded. "Someone's gotta know and Cas wouldn't have landed us here unless she was close."

* * *

They were digging now, on the fringes of the neighbourhood. They'd tried every diner in ever street, every greengrocer and every corner store, Hell, at one point Sam even managed to convince Dean that asking the salesman at a used furniture store would warrant up results. He was wrong, of course, and they had the awkward situation of backing away from a person who looked torn between calling the police and selling them a side table.

"You sure?" Dean asked dubiously, looking up at the rusted sign that cut across the front of the store. Sam felt uncertain standing beneath it, like at any moment it would crash down onto his and Dean's heads. "I dunno if I really got that vibe from a chick named 'Millie'."

"Lots of women went into traditionally male dominated jobs during the war," Sam said, doubtful enough himself but desperate enough to try. "And it does say _Armstrong_ on the sign."

"I don't get why the signs so worn," Dean muttered, leading Sam on nonetheless, even though it seemed like he was scraping for reasons to find a hotel and camp the night. "How long have cars been invented? Three years?"

"Well, you know," Sam said, looking up at the sign and, with squinted eyes, managed to make our 'Canned soup' scraped off near the bottom. Whoever owned the repair shop must have found it somewhere and decided that it'd have its second life as the sign to a garage. "Car manufacturing stopped about two years ago, so maybe it's just neglect. Or the..." Sam gestured to the place on the sign where the soup had been advertised. "Recycling mentality of the decade."

"You're like Wikipedia, but as a person," Dean informed him, eyebrow raised. "How'd the hell you know that?"

Sam blinked at him, frowning a little. Dean was waiting expectantly, and the pause was making things awkward. But surely Dean wouldn't make him say it, surely Dean hadn't forgotten–

"Jess," Sam cleared his throat awkwardly, stopped as they were now before the closed door of the shop. "She took History as her major, I thought..."

"Oh," Dean said, a little too quietly, a little too surprised, and Sam felt that crushing grief play around at the pitt of his stomach. "Oh, sorry, man."

"It's ok," Sam waved it off easily, but he'd had practice by now. He tried to think back, but he couldn't remember ever telling Dean what Jess had been studying, and it might have had something to do with Dean's wide eyed, deer-in-the-headlights expression whenever the topic of Jess was brought up by someone else, or that Sam had been so _inconsolable_ after her death and broaching the subject would have probably just cast open another wound. Either way, it wasn't Dean's fault that Sam barely talked about her, barely remembered, thought about her shining, believing eyes and just wanted to _kill_ himself because she had believed in him _so much_ –

"Sammy?" Dean pressed, hand on Sam's arm and fingers curling into his jacket. "Hey, you ready?"

"'Course," Sam said, and they both ignored that his voice was shaky, that his eyes were welled up and threatening tears, that his face had gone white and lost all over again. "Right, let's do this."

Sam was the one who pushed the door open, and the two of them entered into the shop. It stunk of oil and petrol, but while Sam felt repulsed and two seconds away from gagging, Dean seemed to be enjoying himself. The rusted sign out the front must have been a pretty good indication of business, because there was nothing in the shop except a collection of old parts by the side wall, and a tired looking bike with a basket on the front and an old, iron bell clipped onto the front handlebars. It was gloomy, but what little light did come in came from the window up high on the far left wall.

Across from them was what Sam assumed to be an office, but seemed more substantial under closer investigation; a wooden door greeting strangers with a 'Please knock!' painted silver and neatly across the middle. The door, like the rest of the place, was neglected but the wear was from age and use rather than decay and neglect.

Sam's boots tapped eerily loud on the concrete floor, and off in the distance he swore he could make the faint trembles of a radio being played. There was someone here, he was sure. And if they didn't know where Millie was, then Sam wasn't sure they'd ever be able to find her.

Dean stood in the front and knocked bravely on the door, rapping it with his knuckles. "Hello? Hey!"

Sam stood nervously beside his brother. Armstrong Mechanic's had been the most promising lead that they'd picked up since arriving in Kansas City and he didn't want to waste it. Even if they didn't find Millie, he wanted, he _needed_ , at least an indication that they were on the right track.

The door opened, and when the opener peered out, Sam had to hold in his breath and count to five, because there was no _way_ he'd expected it to hit like this.

The woman–Millie, because who else _could_ it be?–was a female version of their father. The same thick eyebrows, smiling, dark eyes and soft cupids bow lips. She was beautiful, dark hair pulled back behind a bandana and grease smudged on her cheek.

"Hello?" She looked at both of them, and even Dean was lost for words. She pushed the door open fully and frowned at both of them, clearly suspicious. Waist high pants with a worn, yellow buttoned shirt underneath, a silver ring on her right, middle finger and boots as old and worn as Dean's comforting around her feet. "Yes? What do you want?"

"Are you Millie Armstrong?" Sam finally managed, swallowing the strange heightened tone of his voice with a cough, averting his eyes to make it seem like he hadn't been staring.

The woman narrowed her eyes. "I am...why? Is this about the tax deduction? Do you want to know if I've found Jesus?" She pursed her lips. "You got a car that needs fixin'?"

"That big money these days?" Dean asked, looking around the garage with an air of vested interest.

"Why? You tryna buy me out?" Millie rose her eyebrows and glared down at them. "Now, just a second there, because this is _my_ property–"

"No, no!" Dean said, a little too quickly, but sincerely enough that Millie backed down from her rant. "We were just...concerned."

"We know it can't be easy," Sam offered, looking at her softly, assuring.

"Yeah, well, this _damn_ war messed with every sorry Bob on the planet," Millie muttered, scuffing her boot on the ground, mouth tight with all her wound bitterness. "So I can't complain." She shrugged and leant against the wall. "I got me, I got this place and I got Louise. So things could be worse."

"Louise, your–"

"Sister," Millie finished, nodding. She still watched them warily, and Dean most of all, who'd started to move over to the junk pile. Sam didn't put it passed his brother to salivate over the remains of the old cars, nor did he that Dean would slip some of the rarer pieces into his pocket for their one way trip into the future. Millie seemed to share Sam's sentiment, on the last fact at least, and had her eyes trained on his back the minute he began rifling through the things. "Anyway, that don't answer my question. Why're you here?"

"Why are we here?" Sam asked, clearing his throat. "Well, look, Millie, there's no easy way to say this–"

"Sure there is," Millie encouraged dryly. "You could just tell the truth."

The truth, well, that was definitely out. If they wanted Millie to think that they were psychotic freaks, then yeah, they'd tell her about the renegade angel from Heaven who was dead set on destroying her because of the existence of her Grandsons, who were not only alive and in her time, but the eventual hopeful cause of the worlds destruction.

Sam had literally told his life story and been admitted to an insane asylum.

Sam had been thinking of ways to get close to Millie, watch her and take care of her, but then also not overstep their boundaries as 'Strangers'. Dean had agreed with him in keeping their relationship a secret unless they absolutely, because the only thing that would make time-travelling guardians _more_ believable, would be if they were time-travelling guardian _grandsons._

Other options had been FBI agents, but they were murky on the jurisdiction and public awareness of the FBI in the 40's, so they decided to give that a miss, and Dean had shot down 'Tourists looking for somewhere to rest' idea with a flat "You know, she did pretty much raise Dad herself. You think he'd let two random guys stay the night at his place?" It had been a good point, and had only raised Sam's trepidation in meeting her. What if she was like their father? What if she was driven and blind and vengeful and rude? Sacrificing and loving and loyal and _so so_ desperately easy at falling in love.

Contractors for her house, an architect from a neighbour wondering about the measurements of their house, delivery boys offering their services free of charge ( _way_ to suspicious) and distant cousins from Iowa who'd been given Millie's address from their dying shared ancestor; were all ticked off as well.

"We're making the rounds from a local newspaper," Sam told her with a smile. "Going around and interviewing small business owners about the current crisis for the payment of goods. We were wondering if we'd be able to do a case study on you?"

Millie blinked, mouth falling slightly open as though this had been the _furthest_ possible thing that she'd been expecting. "I... uh, yeah. Sure."

"Really?" Sam smiled brightly, and Millie managed faintly back.

"Awesome," Dean voiced from the side of the room, sparing a second to rejoice in he and Sam's victory before returning to the contraption he was putting together, leaning against the wall and tongue between his teeth.

Millie raised an eyebrow, looking at Sam as if to ask, _'Is this guy serious_?'.

Sam just gave an apologetic shrug. From what he could tell about Millie, from the way she held herself to the light in her eyes when she mentioned Louise, to the way she leant against the doorframe and pursed her lips, she and Dean were similar enough that they'd either hate each other or become best friends. They both had that way about them, that they'd challenge the world and be secretly relieved when nothing came of it.

"So," Millie said, awkward, adjusting her hands as if she didn't know what to do with them. "What do you wanna start with?"

"Family," Sam said before he could help himself. She tilted her head and looked at him curiously. "I mean, uh... spousal status. You married? Fiancé? Boyfriend?"

Millie looked disappointed, but not surprised at Sam's question. He supposed that she got it enough, whether she was taking over her husband's business while he was fighting in the war, whether she just helped out and her husband did all the real work, yadda yadda. "Uh, no. No to all."

"Oh," Sam said, mentally calculating what it meant that Henry was completely out of the picture, not even dating yet. "Right. And you said you had a sister. Is she married?"

"Louise?" Millie asked, suddenly, defensive, her words carrying a bite that she hadn't even uttered when they'd first arrived. He could see the situation whirring around in her mind. Were they here for the same reasons that they'd said that they were? Why were they suddenly interested in Louise. "Why? What about her?"

"Whoa, Lady," Dean had made his way over, and now consoled her in an area that Sam had next to no experience, Older Sibling Protectiveness. "Chill, ok? We're just here to get our report. Louise helps around, doesn't she?"

"Yeah," Millie said begrudging, seeing that she was being unreasonable but not bringing herself to care. Her arms were crossed against her chest and she seemed uncomfortable. Whenever you care about someone, you had a million words to use to describe them, brimming and diving behind closed mouths, but if you uttered even one you'd seem delicate, tender, loving. A million words and they all said the same thing, ' _I love you_.' "And it ain't her husband's shop, either. She don't have a man, in any sense of the world."

"No, we didn't--"

"Of course," Sam cut Dean off before he could say something out of the era just to uphold his virtue or whatever. "Right, right. So, the shop, when'd you get it? How'd you get it?"

Millie looked taken aback and looked from Sam to Dean with a frown, a tiny wrinkle digging into her skin  between her eyes. Both the brothers smiled at her, wide and plastic and expectant. Sam had his pad balanced on his fingers and was holding his pen over the page with an impatient air.

Millie just sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Look, I'm gonna need a drink before we do this. Wanna come out back to join me?"

"Sure," Dean answered for both of them, a swift, charming smile and a sharp glimmer in his eye.

* * *

"And how long do you think you can stay open before there'd be forced closure?" Sam asked, running to near the end of his mental list of questions to ask her. So far he'd been the front, and Dean had asked Millie for permission to visit the toilet three times. She probably _would_ have been suspicious if it hadn't been for all the beer that Dean had been downing. Sam was only half way through his first onto the third hour, and Millie had finished off her second, content then to just sit and talk.

Millie ran a hand over the back of her neck. She was tired and sore and tired of looking at him, he knew that. He knew that she wanted nothing more than to kick him to the curb, but he'd implored the importance of the article, promised that it would help them out a ton, and she hadn't hesitated to let them stay.

"Well, see, I guess we could stay open a little longer than most, 'cause Louise has a job with the dressmaker and that's really where we get most of the money for upkeep and such," Millie fluttered her hand around the room, pausing for long enough to gesture to the stove top and the flickering light that she'd switched on once the clock had ticked to 5:30. "But it'd make more sense for us to live a little closer to her work, so..." Millie looked like she could do with another beer. "Soon. We'll have to close soon."

"What are you doing for Christmas?" Sam asked, recalling the date he'd seen on the newspaper earlier that day. The 24th, Cas had given them two days.

"This the article askin' me, or you?" Millie narrowed her eyes. She stood and moved over to the ice bucket, digging her hand in and pulling out another beer.

"Uh, me," Sam winced when he heard how creepy that sounded.

"Someone talkin' about Christmas?" Dean poked his head around the corner and saved Sam from having to make any more embarrassing blunders.

"What does someone like you care 'bout Christmas?" Millie snorted to herself, popping the top off her beer with the bottle opener and handling it between her fingers, giving Dean a derisive once over. "You've nearly drunk me outta house and home. You know that there's a war goin' on? Not all o' us can afford to get drunk all the damn time." She eyeballed Sam's jacket, unimpressed. "We ain't all hotshot reporters."

"Sorry about that," Sam apologised for Dean, giving his brother a pointed look and sighing when all Dean would give him in response was a noncommittal shrug. He decided to take that as a cue to leave, and stood, tucking his pad inside the pocket of his jacket, clearing his throat. "Look, sorry Millie. We gotta thank you for all you've given us, and we'll be back if anything else comes up."

"No problem," Millie managed to smile, hoisting her beer as if to salute them farewell. "And have a Merry Christmas."

"You too," Dean promised, leading Sam out of the house. Sam pushed his chair under the table, flashed Millie a wave goodbye and followed Dean out of the house.

Millie stood by the door from where they'd initially thought to be the office, and had turned out to be her house, watching them leave. It was dark out, and Sam wasn't looking forward to having to make his way through the chill of midwinter. Dean shared his lack of enthusiasm, and shot his brother a long suffering look.

"You fellas got some easy way to get home?" Millie nodded, to touch of worry on her voice not lost on the boys.

Sam glanced back. "Oh, yeah, sure."

"Okay then," Millie said, and it was clear, with every painful movement, her fingers twisting against each other and her brow furrowed over her eyes. "Well, I guess I'll be seeing you, then."

"Right," Sam nodded.

"See you round, Millie," Dean farewelled, giving her a true, fond smile and sending her a salute. He paused for a moment, as if wanting to say something, but then Sam saw as he shook it off, replaced it with his smile and without another word he and Sam exited together into the frigid December air.

* * *

Finding a motel hadn't been as hard as Dean had worried that it'd be. Finding one that'd overlook the subtle but striking differences between their money and the money that was all the rage in the 40's was more of a hike. And then finding one that'd accept the small amount of cash money that they'd had on them had been an even longer stretch.

But they did, and it was only a 20 minute walk from Millie's place. It was further than Sam had hoped, but it was better than he feared. If there was an emergency they'd be absolutely useless, but the motel was just somewhere to sleep. They'd find somewhere closer to put camp the next day, watch the area and scope out whether anyone was acting suspiciously. And then hang around that night. As the days clicked closer to the 26th and they came up with more nothing, Sam was getting worried. What if the angel just travelled back, knew exactly where to find Millie at that exact time and killed her like that? How would they protect her from that?

They would, though. They'd have to. Because Sam wasn't all that keen on never having existed. For all the good they'd done to be wiped out without consideration to what it might mean. That the apocalypse and the leviathans and every damned domino piece that had collided after they triggered the pile might fall anyway.

No, this was better. The future present was far from good, but it was stable. And healing. Sam wouldn't touch that, not now. Perhaps once, he would have appreciated the angels plight.

And just...that all their _sacrifice_ and all the pain that people had gone through to make it that way, how _hard_ people had fought...for that to just be _wiped out_ –

It didn't sit right with him. To think that _this_ John Winchester would never understand the enormous sacrifice he made for his boys. That Dean selling his soul might...not ever exist. That grand, rotten gesture and all the things that happened after it–Sam just couldn't grapple with the enormous disservice it would do. To erase that. That strength. That pain. It deserved to be cherished, to be commemorated and thanked and _understood_. Fixed and healed and kissed, a soothing hand on the cheek of a sickly child.

And almost selfishly, Sam would think about what he burnt in hell for, what he endured for over a century at the hands of the king of Hell, and he didn't _want_ that to mean nothing. _He_ had fixed it. _He_ had solved his own mess.

"You right there?" Dean looked over from where he was sitting, legs crossed in front of him as he poked through their Dad's journal.

Sam cleared his throat and tried to make his features less obviously spoiled and spiteful. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair, turning to Dean, legs dangling off the side of his bed. "Sure, yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

Dean widened his eyes as if he regretted asking and shrugged. "I dunno man, you tell me."

Sam's tongue dashed out and dampened his lips, trying to find something to fill the hole with. So that he didn't have to explain to Dean in so many words that he had managed to justify stopping the creation of the apocalypse. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, checking if Dad had anything on Millie," Dean said, looking over. He didn't look too excited, so Sam guessed that he hadn't had much luck. "I mean, she was his mom, right? He musta written about her at some point."

"Well, Millie's probably dead in the future, right?" Sam suggested, almost gently. "Maybe it was too painful for him."

"Right," Dean said, who had an aversion to talking about Dad beyond the robotic sense, and Sam knew that he'd be treading on his big brothers toes in a major way if he reminded Dean that John had had motivations and feelings beyond him and his family and his wife. Memories and thoughts of their Dad sat so awkwardly in their heads, which Sam reckoned was one of the reasons that Adam's existence had come as such a shock. John had always seemed so determined. There was nothing else to his fight but the thing that killed Mary and his two sons. Sure, there was the monster of the week thrown in here and there, but in the end, the endgame and the Boss Battle and the thing he was saving all his lives for was Azazel.

Every werewolf was target practice, every low level demon just a reason to practice his Latin intonation.

The man had been driven, obsessed. He'd driven Sam and Dean to the brink of co-dependency and hadn't looked back as they toppled off together. He had been a good man; he'd been a terrible father.

He'd had a mother, who loved him. A mother who he didn't care enough to mention in his journal, or a mother who he cared so deeply for that talking about her was too painful to put into words.

"There are ripped out pages," Sam said finally, awkwardly, knowing it wasn't enough. Knew that there would never be a free for all about John Winchester for the rest of his life, and then probably after. "He might have said something when he was drunk and removed them later."

"Maybe," Dean grunted, uncommitted again.

"Right," Sam said, looking away. He was looking at the ground when Dean glanced over, his older brother's face contorted with apology and sadness and regret.

* * *

The diner they found was scarily lucky. Christmas heralded the closing of most stores, and for good reason. The Diner had hardly any customers, and the waitress looked bummed out, her expression dark and vengeful, barely flashing a smile as she poured their coffee. The local library had been closed, so they decided to just slowly order food for the rest of the day. The booths were red leather and the food was poor, with second rate ingredients and skimpy on the butter. But the coffee was the worst part; weak, watery and lukewarm.

"I don't know how long I'm gonna be able to hold on," Dean grimaced, making a face as he placed his mug down on the table, eyeing it as if it had personally offended him. "This is gross."

"It's also wartime," Sam pointed out, making a point of taking a drink of his coffee without raising too much of a fuss. It was hard though, and he hoped that Dean didn't notice his eye twitching.

Other than them, they'd only seen two customers, although they'd come for only a few minutes, bid everyone a Merry Christmas and then left, spending whatever they had in their pockets over a coffee.

"Mmm," Dean said, as if he didn't think that that would be a good enough excuse, but then also present enough to know that he was being unreasonable. Sam knew that he was tired, that neither of them had had a good sleep last night; coupled with the lumpy mattresses and the thoughts of their fathers mother, he almost couldn't blame him.

"You seen anything?" Sam asked, swallowing a heaved sigh and looking out the window to the sliver of Millie's house that they could see. It was better than nothing, and a lot less creepy than hiding in a dumpster or something in front of their door, but he felt like it wasn't enough. Better than the hotel, better than the convenience store that they would have had to resort to if the diner hadn't been open, but not good enough.

"Not a peep," Dean affirmed, voice torn between worry and relief. They'd know if she'd been killed, right? They'd disappear, wouldn't they? Or maybe not. Maybe Millie and Louise were dead, and Sam and Dean were spending their last few moments in a crappy diner drinking cheap, shitty coffee with haggard faces and a rendezvous point to reach in a day.

Time travel made Sam's head spin.

"We could just...well, you know," Sam waved his hands in an obscure gesture. "Go check on them. Say, you know, 'Merry Christmas' and all that. Make sure that they're still ok. Now, I mean."

"Right," Dean nodded, but he didn't look convinced. "Because, you know, that wouldn't be creepy at all."

"I don't think that that's really the most important thing we have to worry about right now," Sam finally said, cinching his lips and tapping the table next to his nearly untouched coffee. "I mean, if she dies and we don't stop it because we weren't tryin' to stand on her toes or something–"

"No, no, I get it," Dean raised his hands, appraising Sam. "We've been here for a while, yeah? And we haven't seen anything. I say we go."

* * *

Millie's face dropped in surprise when she saw who it was that was visiting. "Uh, hi, fella's."

"Hey there Millie," Dean charmed, standing slightly ahead of Sam, the two of them with faces like sunshine. "Just popped by to say Merry Christmas."

"Oh, well," Millie relaxed visibly, her shoulders slumping and her hip jutting out as she leaned against the door frame. "That's awful kind of you. Thanks. A Merry Christmas to you too."

"Mil?" A voice came out from the back of the house, and all three of them turned in attention as another woman came down the hallway. The woman, who could have only been Louise, blinked in surprise, but greeted both of them with a warm smile. "We got company?"

"Oh, yeah, I guess," Millie moved to the side so that Louise could fill in the doorway next to her. "Sam, Dean, this is my sister, Louise. Lu, these are those reporters I was tellin' you about."

"Huh," Louise said, good natured, with a shine in her eye. "Well, hope you two are havin' a Merry Christmas."

"We are," Sam assured her, a little overwhelmed by her. There was something charming and undefinable about Louise. A little more money, a little more drive and passion, and she'd make a classic old-fashioned movie star, with large sunglasses and painted red lips. "Um...are you?"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Oh, yes, of course," Louise smiled. She looked across to her sister, who looked as uncomfortable as the brothers. She looked a little miffed as well, as though she didn't want to share her sister with anyone. Even after just meeting her, Dean could see that she was charming, and bright, and looked like she was painted with sunlight. Honestly, he could almost relate. Once people met Sam, his compassion was addicting, his sure, steady smile indefinable. Dean knew what it was like to have a precious person all to yourself. "Now, Mil, are we inviting these boys in for some dinner, or shoving them out into the cold?"

"Oh no we, couldn;t," Sam said quickly. And then, awkwardly, "It's not that cold," Dean resisted an urge to turn around and give Sammy a look.

"No, no, we insist," Louise spoke for her sister, firm, her lips set in determination. "Come on in. It's Christmas and we can't all be alone. Our parents died a few years ago, you know." She gave them a bright smile. "And we hate being on our lonesome every year."

"Lu," Millie finally interjected, sparing the brothers a quick glance; almost of apology. "We can't just–"

"Of course we can," Louise interjected. Millie pulled back, and Dean could see the warring sides of exasperation and admiration over her face. "Now, how do you two feel about doin' the dishes afterwards to make up for it?"

"We really don't want to intrude," Sam assured them, but Dean could hear how half-hearted he was being. This was perfect, this was beyond perfect. If they could milk their invitation, then they'd have a perfect vantage point to watch the sisters over the next couple of days.

"Nonsense," Louise dismissed, as if the idea of inviting two strange men into her house had been a no-brainer.

"Thanks for that," Dean beamed up at her.

"No worries, Dean-o," Louise beamed, and exchanging a brief, disbelieving look with his brother, Dean followed her in.

Millie stopped them before they could go any further, giving them both a look, arm blocking the doorway. Her eyes were narrowed, and Dean could see the resemblance between her and their father like a kick to the gut. "My sister, she's got this thing about trustin' folks."

"Seems like," Dean agreed coolly.

Millie clenched her jaw, and her fist pressed against the doorframe white-knuckled. "I don't. You do _anythin_ '–"

"Hey, Millie," Sam said, voice soft. "You don't needa worry. We'll be good."

"Best behaviour," Dean promised.

* * *

The food wasn't much better in the Armstrong household than it had been at the diner, but the company was infinitely so. Louise was full of interesting stories, working as a seamstress she'd met her fair share of oddball customers. Millie chimed in here and there with her own observations of being a mechanic, sharing stories about the way people would treat their cars. And Sam and Dean knew just enough about early 20th century automobiles to find the jokes funny.

Louise had served them all homemade pie when the small home sounded with the jarring sound of knocks on the door. The pastry tasted like it had turned to dirt in his mouth, and Dean swallowed it tightly. Sam's eyes were big and worried on his, his little brothers mouth tight, shoulders hunched.

Millie heaved herself up. "I'll get it."

"Uh," Dean wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood sharply, his chair dragging along the floor. Louise jerked back surprised, almost nervous. "I'll come with you."

"Uh, that's perfectly–"

"No, uh, that's a good idea," Sam said quickly, giving Dean a short nod.

Millie wasn't supposed to die yet. She still had a day to go. Didn't she? Or maybe them stopping the angel now was the reason that there was tomorrow for her, maybe they were _always_ supposed to be here now, always meant to be protecting the Armstrong sisters. And Dean didn't want to consider what it meant that they'd started fading, didn't want to try and wrap his head around this whole time travel thing.

Could of. Definitely should have. Didn't.

"Right," Millie frowned, the ease and laughter that they'd managed to permeate through the air had started to fizzle off, so Dean snapped a wide smile.

"Let's not keep the pizza man waiting, yeah?"

Millie frowned, but led Dean down the hall anyway. Dean glanced back for the briefest of the moments to meet Sam's eyes, and a whole conversation of planning was passed between them. Dean would take Millie, Sam would take Louise, and if he needed back up, Sam would be his man.

"Who do you think it is?" Dean asked casually, feeling relieved that he'd had a chance to stretch his legs in a more fulfilling way than awkwardly huddling over to Millie and Louise's slightly disgusting toilet. "Christmas day and all. Pretty weird."

Millie gave him a pointed look. " _Yeah_. It is pretty weird."

Dean flashed a grin.

Millie opened the door when they arrived, and Dean took a respectful step back. Dean could see from the silhouette that it was a man, and that from the way Millie stood, all too akin to the way that they'd first met her for him to be anything other than a stranger.

"Hello?"

Dean moved slightly so that he could see the man without the man being able to see him. He was nervous, pale, clammy. His hands were flexing and cramping and he wore a large jacket, on that he probably stole from someone else, or bought cheap from a thrift store.

Dean snuck his hands around the back of his shirt as Millie talked with him.

"Hi, I was wondering, is this the residence of Millie and Louise Armstrong?" His voice was jittery, but steely calm. There was something off about his persona, like the deadly still of a soldier before running a charge.

Millie wasn't giving in that easy, and not for the first time that he'd met her, Dean had to swallow and shake off the eerily clear flashbacks he was having of his Dad, and the mannerisms he didn't even remember that the man had had until he noticed them in his grandmother. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Who's askin'?"

"I, uh, the um, Government," the man managed, and if that didn't spell out that the dude was an angel, then Dean didn't know what would.

"Am I in trouble?" Millie said, her voice high pitched, mocking. She was humouring the guy, the likely angel, and Dean thanked God or whoever that his family was so cool.

Dean mentally backtracked. Except Samuel. Ugh. What a dick.

"No," He fumbled. "But I–"

Millie heaved a sigh, rolling her eyes and letting her hands drop from being crossed to resting on her hips. "Sure, yes, whatever. I'm Millie. Armstrong. Now, what _truly_ is it that you–"

Dean saw the change in the angels eyes before Millie would have had a chance to. The darkened with a perverse determination, and the angel blade fell from his sleeve to his hand in a thump. The metal hit the skin of his Vessel's palm, and Dean could see how it would go. The angel would thrust up through Millie's sternum, through her heart and then out her back. Blood would ooze on the ground, the apocalypse would be averted for at least the next thousand years, and Sam and Dean would never have existed.

Dean shoved Millie messily into the wall and knocked the Angels blade hand with his body, shoving with all his might. The angel let out a frustrated cry and cut out again. Dean didn't hesitate, cutting around with his own angel blade, meeting nothing but air as the Angel was forced to pull back.

" _Winchester_?" He demanded, eyes wide, like an animal caught in headlights.

"The one and only," Dean's teeth were bared in a grin. "Conversation seems a little stilted; You know all about me, I know nothin' about you. Probably because you're some punk ass Angel who never mattered? Am I right?"

The Angel seethed, eyes flicking from Dean to Millie, who was standing motionless in the hallway, far from freaked but standing still and quiet all the same.

"You deaf as well, douche bag?" Dean pressed. "You got a name? Or," Dean pursed his lips; considering. "Is it just 'Disposable dick no. 3'?"

"Joel," He snapped, distracted now, overrun by Dean's taunting and the surprise in seeing him nearly 40 years before he was supposed to exist. 'My name, is Joel. And you and your brother, you ruined _everything_."

"Correction," Dean pointed at Joel with the tip of his blade. "Your supreme, righteous overlords fucked the universe and then pointed the blame squarely on yours truly." He dropped the grin and stared at the angel, hard. "You know if you kill us, they'll just figure some way for Armageddon to come anyway, right? Another thousand years, and you might not have someone as cute and cuddly as us leading the charge against Fate." Dean paused. "It could be someone worse, someone who _wants_ it to happen."

Joel was crazy, and he was one minded about the whole thing. There was nothing that Dean could have said that would have changed his mind, nothing that would have erred him in the slightest. He gave a short bark of laughter. "Well, I'll just figure that out myself, won't I?" Joel was getting restless. "I'll just stop that one as well. And the next one."

"They'll kill you," Dean promised him, and there was no doubt in his mind that they would. "And then what?"

"I'm not the only one who thinks this way," Joel said, in a low, bitter voice. "There are others, _thousands_ of others who would call me a hero for what I'm doing."

"And Thousands of others who'd call you crazy," Dean bit back. "All I'm sayin' is, don't do this 'cause you think it'll fix things. Because it _won't_."

Joel looked as if he was about to falter, but then his gaze hardened, and he shrugged. "What's the harm in trying?"

Before Dean could think of some bitchy response to distract him with, Joel had his hand flung out, and Dean was pushed up against the wall. He turned desperately to Millie, who looked more frozen in confusion than fear.

"Run! Millie, go to Sam! Get Louise and Sammy out of here!"

With a groan he hindered Joel's movement by seconds, just standing and launching himself at the angel, tangling limbs with him. Joel span him around and perched over Dean, hand gripped tight around his neck. Joel's breath smelt like coffee, like the mints you bought in the machines in half-way decent public toilets. It smelt like the future, and Dean groaned, struggling against Joel's hand for a breath, for some respite.

"I gotta thank you and Sammy for leading me here," he breathed. "Asked around some and figured that you two had already seen her," He smiled, bat-shit crazy. "Course, didn't know it was the two people who I was actively trying to cut down, so I counted my blessings and stood in as your third partner. Word had spread, you know that? People thought that those two big shot reporters were doing a good thing here, at the Armstrong's mechanic's shop, where two sisters lived all by themselves."

Dean tried to respond, but all he could make out was a pitiful whine.

Both jerked in response to the feeling of being sprayed with some sort of water. Joel loosened his hold on Dean, and Dean used the last of his strength to bat the hand aside and move over, taking a deep breath.

Louise was backing away slowly, and empty pitcher in her hand. Her eyes were wide, fearful. "It didn't work," she whispered, pressing back onto the wall, biting her lip.

"Spraying someone with _water_?" Dean demanded, disorientated, swaying, only putting one and one together–

He snapped his eyes up, "Hey..."

"Holy water," Louise said quickly, looking at Dean, almost apologetically. "It stops demons."

"I am not a demon," Joel said, almost offended. "I–"

Dean scrambled for his angel blade and Joel, with a growl and a flick of his wrist, sent Dean back, slamming his head against the wall. His hearing and sight became instantly foggy, but he could make out the sound of footsteps, and the sound of his brother screaming his name.

"Angel!" Sam barked quickly, as a way of clarifying things for Louise, who obviously had a better understanding of what was going on than Millie. Whether Louise was a Hunter, or just interesting in the occult and biblical lore, Dean wasn't sure. He wondered if there had been holy water in the gravy, if the knives and forks had been silver plated.

Joel silenced him by sending Sam crashing down the hall, Sam crumpling on the ground, head cracking with the floorboards on impact.

"Sam," Dean managed breathlessly, torn between the angel blade that lay on the floor in front of him and going to make sure Sam was still breathing.

"Hey!" Louise snarled, crashing into him. She brought her elbow up and slammed it into his eye, and then her fist against his nose. But Joel was an angel, and though brave, Louise had no idea what she was doing. Joel grasped her arm before she could strike again, and with a crack that sounded in the backs of Dean's head, broke her arm.

Louise, hyperventilating, backed up against the wall, nursing her arm against her chest, letting out tiny croons, her voice wavering with pain.

" _You_ ," Joel turned to Millie, who was bending over Sam, keeping her hand on his cheek and her fingers splayed over the middle of his chest, measuring his heartbeats. Millie abandoned Sam and crawled back, scrambling to her feet and turning to run for her life.

Dean could see it happen, could see Joel winning, and with a strength he didn't know he had, stammered over to where his blade was lying, and clasped it in his hand. He pulled himself to his feet and started to run, something looping and lagged, but faster than crawling. He flashed passed Louise, who'd stopped crying to watch him in shook as he ran after Joel's departing back. Either Joel was too tired to catch her against the wall, or he was keen for the hunt, for the satisfaction of the kill.

Dean was gaining on him, and he nearly stumbled on Sam's foot when he passed his brother.

But Joel was gaining on Millie, and though he hadn't been to their house for long, Dean didn't remember seeing an exit up the back. He rounded into the kitchen just a moment after Joel did, and saw Millie bring the still dirty saucepan against his head with an almighty clang. Joel scarcely paid it any heed, pulling back his angel blade and bringing it towards her chest.

She caught it in her hands, and the sharp edges sliced into the fine meat of her palms. She cried out in pain but wrenched the blade away from her chest, scatterings of blood flinging across the room as she spread her hands. She backed through the kitchen, eyes wide and diluted, shaking hard with fear and pain.

She'd just seen this man take Dean down without touching him, just saw him send 6'4" Sam sprawling down the hallway, just seen him snap her sisters arm like it was nothing.

And though Dean was close, he wasn't close enough.

This time when Joel struck out, it was fast. Any sloppiness that Millie had taken advantage of when she'd caught the blade for the first time cut away, leaving only sharpness and precision behind. Millie cast her arms up in a pitiful defence, and Dean was one _second_ behind cutting through Joel's back.

But Joel struck first, burying his blade hilt deep into Millie's chest. Her eyes were wide with fright, and she slammed against the wall behind her, her last moments clutching at the weapon slicing through her chest, gasping out in pain.

With a cry for vengeance, Dean struck Joel in the back, his own blade rendering through sinew and bone and casting a severe blue light casting out from the angels body as it died. Joel slumped to the ground, the image of broken wings searing into the floorboards, charcoal and black, just as Millie's knees bent and she staggered. She fell awkwardly, one leg held uncomfortably against her body.

Dean dropped his blade and fell next to her, knees jutting against the unforgiving, cold wood.

"Millie," he said, fiercely, desperately. "Hey, hey! Millie!"

He turned her over, so that he could see her face, so that he could measure her pulse. He felt at her still warm neck and felt nothing, no promise of life, no throb of a heartbeat. Her eyes were still open, and her mouth slightly agape, with blood leaking out the corner of her lips.

"No, no," he muttered, over and over again as he pressed his fingers tighter against her neck, feeling where her heart _should_ have been beating. It shouldn't have worked out like this, it shouldn't have finished like this. There should have been a way to bring her back, should have been a way to save her. But any angel that cared was locked in Heaven, and Joel was lying dead in the blood of his vessel.

"Millie?" A broken voice asked behind him, and Dean turned, looking up to where Louise was standing. She was holding her arm close to her chest, Sam bringing up her rear protectively. She looked exhausted with pain, eyes haggard. The charm and beauty that had held such allure was cracking, eyes shattered with her broken arm, with her dead sister. She swallowed harshly, the sound contracting through the room. " _Millie_. Millie!"

"Hey," Dean stood, and held a hand out to steady her, but with a snarl she knocked it away and squatted to her knees, sobbing now, hysterical, her breathing severe and raw against her throat.

"No, no, _no no no no_ , please God _no_ ," Louise kept her arm held close to her body but reached out with her good hand to caress her sisters cooling face. "Oh _no_ , no _please no_."

Neither brother spoke as Louise swayed over her sister. Neither brother had to. But they stayed there for her, the girl as she pressed her face to her sisters neck, as she sobbed into her sisters hair.

Her broken cries wrenched through the Christmas night, and outside, through the window, Dean could see snow pattering down. It was reflected in the streetlight, gas and old and yellow.

Louise whispered her sisters name to a corpse.

* * *

Sam had let Dean get off easy, handing him body-burning duty for the dead angel, and leaving himself with Louise. He helped her carry Millie's body to her bed, and lay her down, letting her head rest on her pillows and quickly averting his eyes when he accidently looked up and saw Louise staring at her sister.

He'd bound her arm as soon as she'd let him with some old timber out the back of the house and rags in the laundry. It was far from clinical, but a clean break heals well, and Sam knew that if she took care of it, she'd be fine.

"So, grandsons, huh?" Louise asked, wry, tired, as removed from reality as one person could possibly be. "I guess if angels are real, time travel wouldn't be that hard of a next step."

"Yeah," Sam said awkwardly.

"Angels are bad guys," Louise said, in that same wistful tone that everyone had had. "I mean, I never believed in them, but I had hoped that if anything _was_ real, then that...you know," she looked up at Sam. She hadn't cried since they'd moved Millie, but the tight smile she gave now was almost worse. "If angels were gonna exist at all, I'd hoped that they'd be on our side."

"It's pretty shitty," Sam agreed quietly.

"Millie's grandsons are hunters," Louise summarised with an air of complacency. "Well I never."

Sam didn't say anything, just let the silence between them extend.

"You know, I tried so hard to protect her from this life," Louise said quietly. "Moved to Kansas to get away from all the Hunters who knew me, started a new life as a _seamstress_." She snorted and rolled her eyes. "I was _happy_ –" She cut herself off and held her hand to her mouth, fingers pressing hard into her lips. Her eyes welled with tears and Sam found himself reaching out. She took in a gasp of air, shaking her head and bowing it, eyes on her lap.

Even in the darkness that had become of unmaintained lanterns, Sam could see a tear falling from her eye and hitting her leg.

"Louise, I–"

"I think I'll go to bed," she said, very suddenly, standing up and dabbing at her eyes. "It's been a..." She bit the inside of her cheek. "A _tough_ couple of hours."

"Of course," Sam stood up as she left. He watched her go, watched her walk with the pain, the _acid_ from her broken arm coursing through her body, and the indefinable tragedy of her sister soiling her veins. "You need anything, you tell us? Right?"

"Of course," she said, flashing him a watery smile. She seemed to consider him, and then stopped. "I...Thank you, Sam. For all you and Dean did." She amended. "Well, _tried_ to do. I really appreciate it."

"I'm sorry," Sam told her, as sincerely as he could muster. He needed her to know that he cared, that he and Dean cared. And that it was beyond them no longer existing, beyond the eventual dooming of the world. It was because Louise and Millie had been good people, and they hadn't deserved what had happened to them.

"I know," she said, voice so soft he wouldn't have been able to understand it if it wasn't for watching her lips.

Louise left the room without another word, and Sam sank back into his seat, settling his face into his hands, wishing that he had a drink.

"Where's Louise?" Dean's voice was low, but jarring, and Sam flinched when he heard it. He looked up anyway, and tried to smile at his brothers charcoal darkened face.

"Bed," Sam answered simply. He tucked his hands under the table and on his knees, and gave the unspoken invitation for Dean to sit down across from him.

"Poor Louise," Dean muttered, pulling up a chair looking gloomily off into the distance. "Poor Millie."

"Dean, I mean..." Sam cleared his throat and hoped that it wouldn't be overstepping the moment. "What does this mean for us?" He lowered his voice conscious of how it'd sound if Louise heard him. "Are we dying? Are we...are we going to just disappear?"

"I don't know," Dean said, miserable, shrugging. Sam was struck then with how his head was pounding, and how much Dean's must be hurting.

"We'll talk about it in the morning," Sam said, standing slowly, stretching and massaging his neck. "I'll go ask Louise if she has any pillows or something that we could use to sleep with."

"Right," Dean said, immediately repulsed by the idea of walking all 20 minutes back to their hotel.

Sam made his way through the house. He had a vague notion to where Louise's bedroom was, and it took a linen closet and a laundry before he found it. It was obvious when he saw the door, the wood richer, the handle a nicer, wealthier metal. Even in comparison to Millie's room, it was nice. It struck Sam that maybe Millie had forced Louise to take the nicest room, and for some reason, that hit him harder than anything else had. It was something that Dean would have done, giving Sam the nice room, giving Sam the bigger portions, taking the blame whenever Sam would do something that pissed off their Dad.

He remembered when Dean had been killed by the Hell Hounds and he'd carried his brothers body to the empty field in the middle of nowhere, burying him by himself, swearing and drinking enough to scare Bobby off from helping him. And then he'd driven to the nearest crossroads, downed half a bottle of Whiskey and tried his hardest to sell his soul.

Sam knocked. There was no movement on the other side of the door. His stomach chilled, his tongue caught in his mouth.

He knocked again.

Maybe it was all the talk about killing yourself by selling your soul, or the way that Dean had been looking, all moody and sooty and harsh in all the wrong ways. Maybe it was the way that Sam just _knew_. He knew Louise, he did. They weren't that different, just as Millie and Dean were almost the same.

Sam pushed the door open and clenched his jaw when he saw that it was empty, when he saw that the window was open, the room frigid with the snow pushed in by gusts of wind.

"Dean!" Sam barked desperately, his voice booming from deep in his chest. " _Dean_!"

But the next person to say his name wasn't Dean, and the sound of it stopped whatever half-hearted plan that Sam had started to construct to save her.

"Sam?" Millie's voice was weak, and her eyes sought Sam's like a sailor lost at sea seeks any sign of land. She coughed, her throat was raw. "My chest hurts."

Dean arrived, silent and breathless beside Millie, eyes wide like he was seeing a ghost.

He turned to Sam. "What happened?"

Sam stared at Millie, thought about Louise, and the open window, and the things that people did for each other. The automatic empathetic response that each and every one of them carried. He thought about the way he'd felt when Dean had died, and the way Louise had pressed her hand to her mouth, as if her soul was already trying to escape.

"It's Louise," Sam said, voice husky and low. "She did this. She brought you back."

"How?" Millie asked, her voice was still hoarse but her eyes were clearer. She was holding a hand over where the angel blade had once been, fingers subconsciously rubbing soothing circles into her sternum. "Did I..." She swallowed. "Did I _die_?"

"Yes," Dean answered for her, straight up, eyes not leaving Sam. Sam felt his older brother staring at him, and he knew what Dean would be thinking. That Sam had encouraged it, suggested it, vouched for it. Sam wanted to remind Dean that self-sacrifice in the name of family was really more his thing.

"How am I alive?" Millie demanded, voice shaking back to full colour. "What did....what did Louise do?"

"She...she sold her soul for you," Sam said quietly, not able to meet his grandmothers eyes. "She brought you back to life."

* * *

It went without saying that that had been the thing that had changed. Them being there meant that Joel had died before he could kill Louise, and therefore she was able to go and make the deal. Thus she saved the soul of her sister, doomed herself and inadvertently brought on the apocalypse.

But to look at it like that, Louise Armstrong also inadvertently stopped the apocalypse, and made it possible for Sam Winchester to fall into the depths of Hell, tied together with Lucifer, and save the whole damn world.

The morning of the 26th of December was crisp and bright. Though it had only snowed for a short period during the night, the snow that remained glared brightly off the reflection of the sun. The sky was a chilled blue, and the world was slowly getting back on its feet after the quiet slump of Christmas day.

They'd gone over what Soul Selling specifically entailed when Louise had come home. Sam and Dean had been clinical and removed, and then walked away to give the sisters time with each other. Even from the other room, Sam could hear Louise crying and Millie speaking soothingly, her voice a low rumble through the wall.

They learnt all that had been decided that night the next morning, where Louise told them that she and Millie were closing up shop and going on a Hunt for a way to get Louise out of her deal. They didn't ask if Louise or Millie survived to Sam and Dean's time, and in a way, Dean thought that they just really didn't want to know.

They were just as in the dark as the sisters were about whether or not Louise would get out of her deal. Sam hoped she did though, hoped with all his heart.

"Take care of yourselves, boys," Millie told them warmly, pulling first Sam, and then Dean into hugs. She pulled back and stood beside Louise. Both had bags stuffed with their things and enough money to get them at least to the first Hunter Louise had on her list. After that, the future was murky for the Armstrong girls.

"You too," Sam managed, smiling at her tightly. He looked at Louise. "Both of you."

Louise stood to attention, gaze wary but sure when she looked at the brothers. She didn't regret her decision, that much was obvious. From the way she stared at Millie when she wasn't looking, to the way she was looking at them now. There was not an inch of her that thought she'd made the wrong choice.

"See you, Sammy, Dean," Louise smiled at them. Her eyes flashed a lighter blue in the sunlight. "Take care of the future, yeah?"

"It's a promise," Dean assured her.

"And uh, make sure you don't tell anyone about who we are," Sam said, nervously. "Anyone finds out, and things might start changing in the future, and not for the better."

"Don't worry, we'll keep our mouths shut," Louise said, a twinkle in her eye.

"You're in good hands," Millie promised them, a touch more serious.

"Hey, uh, Mil?" Louise said, looking up from her watch. "The train leaves in 20 minutes."

"You better get going," Sam told them, clearing his throat. The two nodded and went to leave, their packs blocking out the colour of their hair and shape of their heads.

"Hey, wait!" Dean called after them, and all three; Sam, Millie and Louise, turned to see what he had to say. "Just...you don't find anything with this Hunter you're going to see, see what you can find about the Men of Letter's. If anyone can help you, they can."

"Men of Letter's," Louise tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. "They sound kind of familiar." She hoisted her pack up on her shoulders. "Well, thanks for the tip. We'll keep our eyes peeled."

"You do that," Sam waved goodbye.

Cas would be coming to collect them in a few hours, but now they watched the two sisters walk side by side down the road, the day grinding to a start with the odd car that zoomed down the street and the growing crowd of people milling about on the sidewalk.

Sam closed his eyes against the sun, no matter how weak the rays, and basked in the completion of their task. There was so much uncertainty, about what would happen to Louise and whether Joel had been right about the amount of dissenting angels who shared his views, but here and now, Sam could see how the world would pan out.

The first Hunter would be a bust, and they'd follow up Dean's suggestion to the Men of Letter's headquarters. They'd meet Henry, and Millie and he would fall in love. They'd get married, have a son who they'd call John. That boy would grow to resent his father, but he'd grow anyway. And he'd meet Mary Campbell, the Heavens would tug on one of their eternal strings and Mary and John would come to care for each other. It'd be a short, but happy marriage. Mary would make a selfish deal that would get her killed, and the rest of her family would follow her example of making terrible choices in the name of the things that they loved.

There was a gaping hole around what would happen to Louise. But people had gotten out of contracts before, souls doomed for Hell had been lifted to Heaven.

Maybe Louise would get out of her contract, and she might smile in the polaroids on Millie's wedding day.

Sam looked over at Dean, and he smiled.

Despite the night and the death and the turmoil and how everything in their family seemed to just happen over and over again like a tired record player, Dean smiled back.


End file.
